Wings of the Knight
by kokune
Summary: Two missions, decades apart, both centered around one boy. One ends successful, the other in a catastrophe that could change the course of history forever: exactly what the villain intended. Timelines have crossed, and the repercussions could be deadly.
1. Exile Vilify

**Summary: Two missions, decades apart. One ends successful, the other in a catastrophe that could change the course of history-exactly what the villain intended-forever. But can Robin handle the knowledge of the future, or will it crush him?**

**AN: I'd like to point out that there are NO OC's in this story. None. (Unless you count the drug dealer in the second scene... SPOILERS.) I _did_, however, take a little creative liberty and twisted the canon ever so slightly to fit where I wanted the story to go. I promise, all your questions will be answered in the next chapter, so just bear with me-everything in the first scene will be explained, so you don't have to go hunting around for information rather than actually reading the story. One quick note, though, is that Bruce Wayne's Batman costume in this story is his original design rather than the modified version that appears in the YJ cartoons-meaning it's not much different excepting the chest logo and waist area. You'll understand why in a bit. **

**Anyways, enough rambling! Enjoy the story- and I'd love feedback from you guys, both critical and encouraging! Please review! (:**

**Disclaimer: Do I look like I own this? No. So don't even ask. **

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><p><strong>Chapter One:<strong>

Inky darkness that enveloped the notorious city in more ways than one fell like a smothering blanket across cracked brick buildings that towered across an invisible skyline back dropped against the barely-existent light of the clouded half moon. Hours had passed since any human eye would have been able to discern an object farther than half an inch away, offering an inviting solace to the midnight-clad man lurking in the endless shadows high above the city's dilapidated streets. To him, the night was a welcome home that aided him in his eternal-yet at times precarious-quest for the lighter side of good and evil's the ever-changing balance, though this had not always been the case. Once, so long ago, he had feared the darkness; he had cowered like a child in the face of gloom before, in it, he had found the one thing he longed for most in the aftermath of tragedy-understanding, solace, family. And yet, as he grew in the darkness, it never became his nature-no, he was not so inclined to tenebrosity as his forbearer had been, but he had learned to accept it, embrace it, love it.

A gloved hand reached upward toward his ear, unseen eyes flicking, alert, behind the green-tinged night vision visor that was activated undetectably outside his immediate line of vision as an unwelcome, faint burst of static broke the silent stealth of the night from his earpiece. "You sure you got this right, Bats?" a young, perpetually irritated voice crackled through the little bit of technology.

"You do know what _radio silence_ implies, right?" the elder man retorted as quietly as he could-as each minute clicked forward, the separated pair's situation became more and more precarious. They were coming down to the crucial moments of their stakeout, and one wrong move could tip the scales of justice enough for their charge to escape-or, much worse, carry out the nefarious deed he was suspected of planning. "Keep an eye out; it's almost three- he should be here any moment."

With that, he lifted his hand to shut off communications once more, but not before his charge snapped, "You never _did_ tell me who your 'sources' were, anyway! How do you even know it was reliable information? We've been here for _hours_, and this so-called Chronos guy hasn't shown hide or hair. Face it, he's not coming, and you're just afraid to admit you were wrong." Batman could practically _hear_ the self-satisfied and degrading smirk through the airwaves, and he resisted the urge to sigh while trying to maintain some level of alertness to his surroundings.

"Just bear with me a little bit longer, kid. If he doesn't show within the next half hour, we'll head home, I swear. Until then, though, I need you too-" Whatever reminded warning the shadow-clad man had been about to pass on to the child was suddenly cut off as he ceased speaking, having been momentarily blinded through his night vision apparatus by an excessively bright light that burst through the broken glass window frames of the warehouse below the two costumed individuals. Suddenly, it was all business, and, with a quick, final, "Head out," spoken over the comm. link, both set out from their hidden spaces toward the offensive positions they had previously planned: the main exits. Each confidant that the other would fulfill their part of the mission, no more words needed to be exchanged.

Taking lead, the Batman swung like an ominous breeze from the rooftops, landing just low enough to scope out the main entrance for any markers of an entry he had missed. Despite the obvious signs of someone's presence inside the building, he had not seen anyone near the building for quite some time-in fact, it had been several hours since he had picked up on anyone's presence in the surrounding area at all. No late-night stragglers stumbling down the desolate sidewalk, no weary drivers slightly swerving across the streets, not even one homeless alley-dweller making his stay for the night beside some dumpster or another. How could he have missed it? Surely Robin would have reported if there had been signs of life revolving around his guarded side of the building... Once he was satisfied that there were no second-rate goons lurking to guard their boss from behind, the Cowled Crusader made his way onto the warehouse's roof before creeping through one of the many empty window frames and into the empty building below. Still recovering from the shock to his eyes, he squinted through the blackness, sharp senses hunting for any movement or sound that would give away the other's presence in the large, desolate room. A green blur-one obviously not made of his somewhat-inappropriately-bright companion-confirmed his suspicions as he whipped around, eyes adjusting further every moment. Another movement, this time to his left. Again at his right. He resolved to remain still, hoping to draw out the villain into a more centered position, relying on the assumption that he had not been spotted yet. Any chance of further anonymity was dashed, however, as a disturbingly chilled breeze wafted fiercely through the entryway behind him, ruffling his Kevlar-lined, midnight cape and effectively giving away his location to anyone keen enough to be watching. There was a fourth swipe of emerald-this time in front of him-and suddenly a figure was standing in the center of the concrete floor, illuminated by what could have been a reflection from some far-off streetlight, a stray line of moonlight peeking from behind the grey clouds that covered its father, the enhancement of the darkness-penetration viewing technology his pursuer possessed, or some random combination of all three.

"Ah, Batman, what an expected surprise!" The sickeningly gleeful voice echoed, turning to confront the focus of his statement as he swooped from the shadows. The sudden spike of static in his ear alerted him to Robin's close proximity, but he hoped the kid had enough sense to wait for his signal. He was reckless like that-always thinking he knew how to handle the situation best without taking into consideration a strategic standpoint and instead charging a situation head on, fists raised. He had warned the boy that, with this particular villain, especially, such methods could prove fatal, but he could only pray that at least part of his warnings had broken through the stubborn barriers around his already hard head. In some detached, juvenile part of his own mind, the Batman silently laughed-the kid was just like his father in some respects. "Though, of course, if I knew you were coming, it wasn't much a surprise, now was it? Such a shame... I do love surprises; although it's been quite some time since anyone has ever been able to pull such wool over my head." A darkly amused chuckle traveled into the darkness, causing the vigilante to tense and discretely check the time. They had only a few minutes left.

"What'd the big deal, Chronos? There's nothing here to steal, no one here to trade with-no possible way to make a profit of any kind from this little endeavor of yours. What are you playing at?" He demanded, taking a single, threatening step forward and raising a bat-a-rang on instinct, poised to throw in the increasingly inevitable event that he should need to.

"Oh, don't tell me you haven't figured it out, Batsy-I know you have, so don't lie to me!" the man grinned, and for a moment Batman was struck by the unnerving similarities that paralleled the Joker. He wondered briefly if, at some point during his travels, the villain had crossed paths with his fellow madman. "I've been leaving clues absolutely _everywhere_ for you to find," he lamented dramatically, throwing his hands in the air with a scowl, causing Robin-who was now watching the exchange barely off to the side-to jump at the sudden movement. Unfortunately, this alerted Chronos to his presence, and he laughed once more. "You brought the little Bird Boy! Oh, I should have guessed-but this was supposed to be _our_ night, Batsy. Your big solo performance for the final scene of the show!"

HIs position having been compromised, Robin took up a fighting stance and immediately leapt into action, no longer having any legitimate reason to stay subdued. "Oh, shut up, already!" he growled, having lost any patience for this night several hours ago, when the endless stakeout had still been in progress. Training kicking in, he dashed forward and released several bird-a-rangs directly at the seemingly-helpless villain, completely ignoring the both elder hero's warning and the but-job's squeal of joy.

"Let's rewind that, shall we?" Before he could register what was happening, the explosives froze in their path toward Chronos, standing still in the air for a split second before twirling backwards the way they had come at double the speed. Though they didn't explode, their razor-sharp edges were more than deadly as he tumbled out of the way just in time to avoid being sliced by his own weapon. "Time manipulation ... don't you just _love _it?" Another laugh. Frustrated at being so easily dismissed and completely fed up with the evening as a whole, he lunged again, only this time to have his whole body come to a stunted halt in mid-movement. Try as he might, he had no control over his movements. Batman, seeing an opportunity, used the momentary distraction to his advantage and launched the waiting bat-a-rang directly at the villain, not expecting anything to come of the attempt other than a few stalled seconds. He only needed to keep Chronos occupied until three o'clock, when Chronos's own time would be up. Instead, however, the time traveler acted a millisecond too late-while there was no explosion from the little black device, it soared directly toward him, still lethal, mirroring the situation he had created for the sidekick not moments before. In the blink of an eye, he cried out, stumbling forward from the impact. Robin fell to the ground, the invisible hold on him released, yet he could not get his hands out in front of himself in time to break his fall; the side of his head met the concrete with an all-too-audible _crack_. Almost immediately, the cocky grin melted from the now-rapidly-shifting face of the villain, his manifestation quickly crumbling as his body tried to stabilize itself, already so close to deforming.

Thinking quickly, Batman realized what was happening, and acted almost without consciously deciding on his movements-the plan had been set in motion early, and he had no choice but to move forward and improvise. Another bat-a-rang was fired, though Chronos flickered at the moment of contact and the weapon passed through him-he was nearly too far gone to be pinned in this timeline, and precious time was slipping away. There was no telling where or when the villain would pop up again, and now was his only chance to prevent even more chaos than the metahuman had already caused. Chronos, in a last ditch effort to stabilize himself before shifting away without his control, reached for the closest thing to him: Robin, who was just now attempting to gather his bearings from the fall, struggling into a wobbly standing position, determined not to be taken down before he was given the chance to fight. Knowing what would happen if the two made contact and desperately hoping that there was still enough time to pin Chronos to this reality, Batman, fueled with adrenaline and familial instinct, pounced, throwing himself through the air and, by some miracle, tackling the panicking man to the ground before he latched onto the younger hero. His victory was short lived, however, as he realized that he was too late: Chronos's body was beginning to dissipate into another time stream completely, and-because of the sudden contact-Batman's molecules became sucked along into the interdimensional frenzy, as well.

Robin could only watch, through the disorienting fog still clouding his mind, as his mentor cried out in agony, his body rapidly ripping apart across time streams, before both he and the man pinned underneath him disappeared completely.

* * *

><p><em>I've got a visual!<em> Artemis's mental voice rang through the minds of four other teens scattered throughout the rooftops and containers that made up the small shipping port where the team was currently located. The archer, situated at the highest, clearest point atop the main building located at the center of the complex, honed in on a shadowy figure swerving frantically throughout the labyrinth of usually-colorful containers made only all the more confusing by the darkness as the rest of her team moved out, waiting for the order to fire the arrow notched in her bow, ready and waiting against the taut string. She relayed the man's position through the telepathic link as best she could, before releasing the weapon at Kaldur'ahm's order. It soared through the still night air, slicing through the sky like a silent, deadly blade, before its loaded tip blew, expanding into a comically large, weighted net and falling over the criminal who stumbled to the ground under the impact.

_Kid Flash, Miss Martian, that is your cue, _Aqualad relayed telepathically from his hiding place as he watched two separate events simultaneously. The apprehension of the petty henchman was only a distraction-a decoy to sway the team away from the actual high-end drug deal taking place on the other side of the compound, both of which were in Kaldur's line of vision from his place aside his fellow blonde teammate. _Remember, it must be convincing. We do not wish to alert them of our knowledge of their actual dealings. Robin, Superboy; are you in position?_

Mental affirmatives passed across everyone's thoughts as Wally and M'gann approached the fallen-and quite obviously shaken up-scrawny criminal they had captured, prepared to play up the apprehension. Immediately, the redheaded speedster had the young man pulled up by the scruff of his collar, "Alright, where's the shipment?" he demanded fiercely, trying desperately not to laugh at how... un-Wally-like he sounded as the Martian girl hovered ominously in the background, arms crossed and an attempted scowl spread over her facial features. Despite how terribly they posed as stoic, threatening heroes, the man only whimpered in response. "This is just sad, dude," Wally continued, "You're _caught_, give it up already. You're going to jail either way-breaking and entering, trespassing, possession of illegal substances," he gestured to the decoy package that appeared to contain a rather substantial amount of cocaine clutched in the frightened man's shaking hands. "You might as well tell us where the rest of it is. We _know_ you weren't working alone."

On cue, M'gann broke in, placing a hand on the speedster's shoulder, "I don't think he's going to tell us anything else; when the police get here, they can handle him, but he we're not going to hear anything more tonight." At her words, the man visibly relaxed, sagging in the teen's grip and subsequently passing out. While the two heroes made a show of tying him up for the authorities, Robin, on the other side of the complex, watched the main exchange happen in real time. Several large, muscled, masked men were transferring crates from one of the docked ships to the trunks of several dark-tinted vans. The men were silent as they worked, mindlessly going about their assigned tasks as if nothing was wrong. With a shudder, he wondered if they even knew what it was that they were carrying. Turning his attention away for a moment, he focused on the apparent leader of the entire deal: a thin, yet deceptively muscular man in a rather nice-looking suit and tie. He had one hand pressed to his ear, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his features as he listened to the entire conversation held by his 'sacrificial man' and the two members of the Team through a hidden wire in the thug's coat, believing he had outsmarted the mini-League. After sending a mental all-clear to Superboy, who was watching the men from across the lot, he released his grappling hook and took off. This was their moment, and there was no room for making mistakes.

Despite what it may have appeared to be to an outsider, the truth remained that this was no ordinary drug deal. The Team had been tracking the couture-clad man, formally known as the cartel kingpin El Rey Sol, for weeks, tracking his movements and trying to determine when his next shipment would arrive-because if the man wasn't stopped, it could mean serious danger for more people than just the usual addicts. El Rey Sol, a self-proclaimed high-end dealer, operated with some of the more posh supervillains of the day, and made it his business to be in production of some of the most exclusive, custom, black-market substances known to man and metahuman alike. Although there was no way to confirm from a distance, the Team's sources had hinted that this particular haul of cargo was an assorted amalgam of the Joker's Laughing Gas and Scarecrow's Fear Toxin, two deadly substances that the youngest member present was all-too-familiar with.

In a matter of minutes, however, the entire ordeal seemed to be over, making for a somewhat disappointingly anticlimactic end to all of their hard work as the fight came to a head and quick end. Thanks to their treasured element of surprise, Connor was able to take down two guards almost immediately after leaping from the shadows, before quickly disposing of the rest. At the same time, Robin swooped from above, landing atop El Rey Sol and pinning him to the ground before he was even aware of what was happening. He struggled, attempting to fight off the Boy Wonder, and spat curses as he watched his supposedly-infallible defense team being subdued for collection by the Gotham City Police Department.

"Nice job with those knots, beautiful," Wally winked, gesturing toward the rope from Artemis's net used to bind the hands and feet of the decoy until the proper authorities could arrived to collect him, "with skill like that, you know you can tie me up any time." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and grinned, his green-skinned friend only rolling her eyes in response and beginning to hover away, ignoring yet another flirtatious comment thrown at her by the young speedster. With a small, uncharacteristic smirk on her part, she realized that she was starting to act like Artemis in the face of Kid Mouth's 'advances'. Soon, the pair was headed toward Batman's protégé and the young clone, with whom the rest of the team had agreed to regroup, Wally having slowed down to a semi-normal pace in order to keep up a one-sided conversation with the Martian girl as the traveled. While making their way across the compound, M'gann busied herself with ignoring Kid Flash's endearing-though somewhat annoying-ramblings by scanning over the emotions of everyone within the complex, just to be sure that they had taken out all immediate threats. Suddenly, however, she stopped dead in her tracks, leaving Wally to continue on for several more steps before realizing she was no longer with him. "What's up, Miss M?" he said, turning to find her back facing toward him, staring confusedly at something off to her right.

To everyone else's surprise, the four other members felt the internal pricking sensation as the mental link was reestablished across the team. _Miss Martian, is something wrong_? Kaldur asked immediately, retreating into the darkness at the base of the building he and Artemis had just descended as the archer stopped and made herself scarce- yet still very deadly- as well. Similarly, Robin, after securing El Rey Sol, quickly scaled a stack of shipping containers with his grapple in hopes of getting a better vantage point of the happenings, all the while blending with the shadows as he had been taught from an early age by his mentor. Superboy was left in charge of their prisoners, but-as most were either unconscious, half-conscious, or unwilling to fight lest they join their comrades in oblivion, there was not much for him to worry about other than his girlfriend's unnerving actions.

_It's... weird. I can sense someone else here, but they keep fading in and out_, she transmitted as she began to hover in the direction of the intense emotions-which happened to be away from either of the deals.

_What, you mean like when someone's unconscious?_ Wally asked, raising an eyebrow as he followed M'gann through the maze of metal boxes. _'Cause there are a few of those around here, and I don't think you'll need to worry about them__._

_No, almost like they're leaping out of existan-_

Suddenly, her words in their thoughts were cut off as another, new voice entered their heads, immediately putting everyone on edge. _Ugh, what- where... _Robin_!_

At the distressed mental cry, every member of the team sprung into action, heading straight for the source of the anomaly. As quickly as she could, M'gann cut off the link that had somehow been established with the newcomer, confused and upset in the face of her mistake. She had been learning to better control her powers, and thought she had made some sort of progress. This, it seemed, was a major setback-how could she let a stranger enter their mental link?

_Robin_, Kaldur called as he and Artemis made their way toward the source of the commotion, _Are you alright? _

_Yeah, I'm not sure what that was all about-I'm fine. _

_ Miss Martian, what was that?_

Through her reply, everyone could feel her guilt at having messed up yet again-being the least experienced of the team had its continual disadvantages, try as she might to remedy them. _I have no idea, but whoever it was has managed to stabilize himself consciously. I don't think he's on the move yet, thoug-_ Wally's voice interrupted her. The Fastest Boy Alive had raced ahead to scope out what they were dealing with, and now stood, frozen, in front of a struggling, cloaked figure lying crumpled on the ground.

_Uh, hey Rob? You might want to get over here, like, _now_, man. _He sprinted toward the fallen man and began checking for a pulse just as Miss Martian appeared over the crates.

"Is that... Batman?" she asked, stunned, as she quickly headed to help her teammate.

"C'mon, are you with me?" Wally asked the face-down figure, only earning a weak moan in response. Although that in itself was disturbing, the pair nearly jumped in surprise as they managed to turn the injured man over.

"Get back, guys- that's _not_ Batman," Robin growled, emerging from the maze around them and dashing over toward the imposter as he opened his eyes and immediately shot up, causing all five gathered teens to shift into fighting stances.

"Robin!" he yelled, frantically turning around before his eyes came to rest on the Boy Wonder, "Robin?" he took a hesitant step forward, but staggered, pain shooting through his body as he nearly collapsed.

"Don't you dare move," the little one growled menacingly, "Now who are you, and why are you dressed like that? Don't you know it could get you killed out here?"

"I think he does, Rob," Artemis broke in, approaching the man just as he fell to his knees. "He's hurt, and it doesn't seem that he's much of a threat-let's get him to a hospital before he really does die on us."

Their leader nodded in agreement, approaching the newcomer, "Robin, contact the League and tell them that Sol has been captured and his shipment secured for their disposal. We will alert the authorities- Superboy, keep an eye on this man as a precautionary measure." With that, he stepped to the side as he contacted the GCPD and requested an ambulance.

As Robin made a similar move to do so, however, the man-who had been squinting all the five costumed teenagers surrounding him over the course of the conversation, suddenly groaned, causing Miss Martian to approach worriedly, prepared to smooth over his pain with her healing abilities. Despite the fact that his presence was cause for concern, she could not help but know that he was not a threat, and that he seemed familiar somehow. "Let me help you-"

"Robin," he called weakly, earning a wary glance from Batman's protégé as he muttered something into his communicator.

Wally and Artemis joined their Martian friend, exchanging worried looks just as the man finally collapsed. The redheaded boy managed to catch him before he hit the cold, hard, concrete ground, chuckling nervously, "Whoa, there-careful."

"Wally," the man moaned, causing the speedster to jump as if burned and everyone within hearing distance to tense-no one, _no one_ was supposed to know their secret identities. Suddenly, this man was absolute priority. "Wally, what happened?" Before any questions could be asked, though, he slipped back into unconsciousness.

"Rob, get Batman here, now," he called to his friend. "We've been compromised."


	2. Heavy in Your Arms

**Chapter Two**

_Have you ever wondered what the world would be like without its precious Batman to save it? Quite a thought, really-Gotham without the Dark Knight. Would anyone mourn, or would the people be grateful? What would become of the city? The Justice League? Robin? Imagine a day without the Bat. Now imagine a lifetime... Can you see the future, little bird? Because I can. And it's beautiful._

The man awoke with a jerk, shooting into a sitting position before crying out in pain and falling back into the pillows that surrounded him as an echo-y laugh continued to ring across his subconscious mind, playing on an endless loop that both terrified and annoyed him. He stifled a groan and squeezed his eyes shut against the light that surrounded him... patrol had been a nightmare the night before, and his body-wide agony must have contributed to the viciously twisted dream that followed soon after he had fallen into bed. Yet still... it had felt so real. With new resolve, he reopened his eyes, intent on swinging by his Robin's room, if only to reassure himself that the young boy was alright. As he squinted through the blinding pain that accosted him, however, he realized that something was wrong. Something was very, _very_ wrong. For one thing, the ceilings in his room were not white. Secondly, as he became more and more aware of the world around him, he noticed a faint, constant beeping. He tried to move his arm, but found that something held his hand tethered to the bed on which he was lying. Again, he blinked, trying to regain his bearings, but he found that every time he did so a wave of dizziness wafted over his whole being-that did not deter him, as he struggled once more to sit up, this time nearly succeeding before being forced to lie back only partly propped up. It was enough, though, as he realized belatedly where he was.

Despite the excruciating brightness of the white-washed walls, the room was relatively dim, the only light source coming from a small, standalone lamp in one corner rather than the fluorescent overheads. There remained, of course, the nauseatingly strong scent of disinfectant and variously strew machinery that was so common to every hospital room, but this one seemed... different, somehow. Before his sluggish mind could deduce why, however, he noticed a figure standing in the shadows the yellow glow did not quite reach, and immediately tensed; he instantly regretting the action, however, as fire flared through every muscle at the sudden movement. "Good; you're awake," a low, almost growling voice emerged from the dark corner as the lurker stepped forward. The patient blinked and felt his mouth hang in surprise at what he saw, but quickly regained composure enough to scowl . Where was he? And what was some half-witted, poorly-dressed, outdated Batman impersonator doing in the room with him. "Now tell me," another step forward, "Who are you?" Now, he was right by his bedside, leaning over the side with a menacing glare. The man, however, had faced down scarier villains than his companion even had the guts to have nightmares about before-and won-leaving little room for intimidation.

"Who am _I_?" He shot back with a dirty look of his own. "Who the hell are _you_? And where am I?" He jerked the surprisingly-comfortable leather restraints for emphasis.

The caped man, however, remained unfazed, and calmly replied, "You're in a hospital in Gotham City, and I find it quite hard to believe that you don't know who I am, considering you possess some very intimate knowledge regarding certain members of my team."

He blinked, confused, "A hospital? Why am I in a hospital?" The world still the slightest bit foggy, he looked down and noticed for the first time that he was no longer in his own costume, and that his right arm was wrapped in thick gauze. From what he could feel, his head was wrapped, as well.

Once again, his questions were answered with patience. "When you were found, you were delusional with a severe concussion and internal bleeding. You fell into a coma three days ago, and there was a doubt that you would even survive. Do you remember anything?" The man noticed that he was not asked his name again-maybe the imposter thought he had amnesia? He didn't care, becoming increasingly convinced that he was still dreaming. Three days? Impossible.

"I was... in a warehouse; we were on a stakeou-" it then occurred to him that he should not be revealing anything to the stranger before him, and he cursed his slow-moving, injured brain. "I haven't lost my memory, if that's what you're implying." he snapped, trying to regain some control over the situation. "Why am I tied down? What's the big deal, here? Where are my clothes?" Slowly, panic began to rise in his chest-had he been taken hostage? Did they know who he was? "Where's Robin?" At his last demand, the other man's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"You're tied down because you lapsed into violent, hallucinatory fits as an after effect of the fever that caused your body to shut down. It was for your own safety as much as the hospital staff's. Your... _costume_ is being examined individually, the need only having presented itself after you made yourself a threat. As for _my partner_, you have no business with him, thus his whereabouts are of no concern to you."

"_Your_ partner? What are you, some kind of nut-job super-fan with no life? There's no way Robin could be with _you_, because-" Then, suddenly, the world crashed before his eyes, and the reason the hospital room seemed so _off_ became clear: all of the equipment present-pixilated heart monitor, plastic-railed protective bed, hanging IV dripping from a clouded metal stand, black box-of-a-TV mounted to the wall-was so horribly _outdated_. Everything in the room hadn't been used for years in Gotham, all having been replaced by cheaper, more efficient models. _And he had seen Wally_. Not _his_ Wally, but _Kid Flash_ Wally. "Shit." With a groan, he fell back onto the crackly hospital pillows, before shooting up again, ignoring the wave of vertigo. "But then that makes you- shit." _Bruce_.

The man in front of him only raised an eyebrow at the young patient's odd behavior... not that anyone could tell, though.

* * *

><p>"You're distracted," Black Canary stated with a frown as she dodged yet another careless hit from the Boy Wonder on the training pad. "Focus on the here and now; any rash decisions made in the heat of the moment could cost you or others your lives."<p>

"Well, no _crap_ I'm distracted!" he exploded, throwing his hands in the air and giving a frustrated groan to the empty stone hall. Even so, he jumped to avoid his opponent's leg as it shot out to unbalance him. He was flustered, not _stupid_.

While the rest of the Young Justice team had opted to take the day off and head to the Happy Harbor beach, Robin had decided to stay behind at the base, lost in his own thoughts-he had been doing a lot of that over the past few days. Eventually, though, his own looping mental paranoia became too much to handle, and, not wanting to spoil the day for his friends, he had called the team's combat mentor for a one-on-one sparring session in hopes that the fight would take his mind off the disturbing events prior. Still, that had proved a fruitless effort. All too soon, he was being pinned to the ground under the leather-clad woman, struggling and failing to overpower her. "Let's call it, shall we?" with that, she stood, offering a hand to the fallen boy. "There's not much more we can do without you hurting yourself." She only received a grunt in response as she helped him up before tossing a water bottle his way. "I know you're upset about your last mission-"

"It's not the mission, and you know it," he sighed, defeated. There was no use holding everything in anymore-eventually, he was going to explode, and the last thing he wanted was all that pent up anger to be directed toward his friends, or, worse, his father. "Sorry." Black Canary only nodded with a small, reassuring smile, understanding, as they made their way back toward the kitchen, and waited for him to continue. "It's that... _guy_. He was dressed as Batman. That was just... weird."

"But you've seen tons of people dressed up as your mentor countless times before. How many Halloweens, costume parties, TV shows and movies have you encountered over the years with impersonations both of you? Why is this so different?" she prodded, treading carefully as she slipped into therapy-mode. While she wanted to maintain a somewhat personal relationship with the young man, she also wanted him to know that she was someone to talk to even outside of their sessions. Trust seemed to be a key ingredient that both Bats were missing, the younger of the two having had a lack of faith in people drilled into him along with his training at an early age. It wasn't healthy for a teenager to harbor such unneeded angst.

"Just... seeing him so hurt, so broken-even though I knew it wasn't really Batman, it was still disturbing to see... And, even creepier, he knew Wally's _name_. I mean, sure, the Flashes aren't as excessively secretive as me and Bats are, but it does make you wonder, you know? How much does this guy really know?" he sighed again, running a hand over his face and rubbing his tired eyes. He had not been able to sleep much in the past few days, and the constant fatigue was beginning to take its toll on him. "The whole thing is just strange."

The blonde mentor nodded again, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I have absolute confidence that things will work out, Robin; you should have seen Batman when he got your call. With a man as protective as him looking out for you and the Team, nothing will be able to get to you. Besides, I know from experience that you five can handle yourselves." She smiled.

In response, Robin gave a weak laugh and attempted to grin, "It's not _us_ I'm worried about."

_Recognized: Kid Flash, B-03_

Any opportunity Black Canary had to ask for an explanation was swiped away as the rest of the Team began returning from their much-needed afternoon break.

_Recognized: Artemis, B-07_

"-going to _kill_ you!" the blonde archer growled, lunging for a laughing Wally as he sped off, making sure to stay just out of her reach. This, of course, as intended, only served to frustrate Artemis more, and soon she was chasing her redheaded friend throughout the living area of the cave.

_Recognized: Aqualad, B-02_

"Artemis, please," Kaldur stated as soon as he stepped from the Zeta Transporter, immediately playing his default role as mediator between the two, "I am sure Wally meant no harm."

_Recognized: Superboy, B-04_

_ Recognized: Miss Martian, B-05_

"No harm? What are you, blind? _He put me in a sandstorm. _A goddamn _sandstorm_. Around me. While I was trying to get some homework done. How could that _not_ annoy me?" She didn't even turn to look at their leader as she ground out the words, making another pass at the maniacal speedster. Upon closer inspection, Robin noticed that, yes, she was _covered_ from head to toe in what could have been half of the beach itself. Black Canary cringed for the girl-it would be weeks before her mane of hair would be sand-free. As the two straggling members of the Team wandered in, oblivious to what was going on around them as they were so wrapped up in each other-it seemed that they were having a private mental conversation of some kind, but the Boy Wonder did not particularly care to find out what-Wally made the mistake of attempting to swerve around them, causing Artemis to crash into the Boy of Steel and subsequently fall flat on her back, Connor remaining completely unaffected though a bit stunned at the sudden contact. It was, however, only a minor setback for the fiery girl, and soon she was back in the chase. "My English book will never be the same, you moron!" she screeched, "I am going to _end you_."

The leather-clad combat mentor sighed, grinning, sure that it was only a matter of time before Artemis made a run for her bow and quiver. If she did, though, things would quickly get messy, and she wanted to avoid any sort of falling out-no matter how small-among the group as much as possible. Even though it seemed that life had returned to some relative level of normalcy after the Team's failed training exercise, she knew that it was only a front. Tensions had further heightened between the teenagers with the arrival of the mysterious Batman imposter, and the clock was slowly ticking down to what was shaping up to be an inevitable explosion.

* * *

><p>There was no way this was actually happening. Yes, he had considered the possibility that it <em>could<em> happen, but he had never gone so far as to think that it _really would_. And yet, here he was-and there _he _was, looming in front of him in that endearingly threatening way that only Batman-the _real_ Batman-could. Part of him wanted to jump from the uncomfortable bed and leap into his arms, crying, happy to be able to see him again. Another, far more rational side recognized that he would have to tread carefully from then on, however. It was more than likely that he had already managed to change things by simply existing in that moment, and he silently cursed himself for being so stupid, so _careless_. No, he did not regret protecting Robin; his sidekick was still only a child, and he would have had no idea what to do in such a situation. He did, however, want to give himself a hard kick for any significant information that might have passed over his concussion-based, loose lips. The world around him was still a bit hazy, and attempting to remember anything from the last few days tilted the room on an axis, his mind begging him to move on to simpler topics. Now realizing the full extent of just what he had gotten himself into, the man switched tactics and prayed that his acting skills had improved significantly over the years-he never had been able to lie to the Bat when he had been younger.

He squinted and gulped, willing a frightened expression across his features; it was not particularly hard to fake, simply because he was, in a sense, very afraid at the moment. Pushing down panic with more drama than was necessary, he stuttered, "Whoa, man... whoa, whoa, whoa... This isn't part of the game anymore, is it?" He shook his head in feigned disbelief.

"I'm afraid not," came Bruce's bemused-and somewhat relieved-response. Still, though, Batman refused to let his guard down. Despite not showing it, he knew the man was hiding something. There was the faintest of twinges at his lower left eyelid as he spoke, something that only the World's Greatest Detective could have picked out and honed in on. Even so, he played along.

"So you're the _real_ Batman?"

"Yes." At this, the man gave a whistle, before paling.

"What happened to the others? Are they here, too?"

"Others?"

"Well, yeah- you can't stage an epic role-playing game with just one person," came the shrugged response. Even that little movement was painful, however, and he winced.

Again, Batman's eyebrows rose, unseen. So he was one of _those_ kids-the number one fans who thought that being a vigilante was something to aspire to be. Still, he was skeptical. "How many of you were there?"

"Overall? I don't know, sir," the man replied, before he internally grimaced at his slipup. _Sir_. He had been around the cloaked man for five minutes, and already he was slipping back into his old ways. "With me, though? Just two of my friends," he hesitated, making it look as though he were trying to remember their names, when in reality he was running through any names he might have mentioned while in his feverish state. Unfortunately, he could only remember one, and he hoped for the best with the only other name that came to mind, mentally giving a small, sobered grin as he gauged the other man's reaction. Really, though, he simply could not resist, even though it was his concussion rather than common sense that seemed to be in charge at the moment. "Wally and Dick."

Batman, however, gave no indication that the nomenclatures rang any sort of bells, upholding the ruse. "Where did you last see them?"

"I... I don't really know; everything's all sort of messed up in my head," he groaned for effect. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recognized that they were both simply playing each other, each knowing something that the other man in the room did not. He had been a fool to think that he would ever outmatch the Bat-especially in his current state-and he knew that. Still, though, he could not pass up an opportunity to prove himself in some way; though to whom-himself or the man standing above him-he was not sure.

"Would you like me to call a nurse?" His voice was gruff and clipped: a sure sign that he was losing patience with the situation evident only to someone who knew him.

"No, no; I'm fine," he sighed, waving off the older man, a worried expression masking his features. "What happened?"

"We're not sure; I was hoping you could tell me. I can't help you at all, though, if you won't tell me who you are." Over the course of their conversation, Batman had become less of a menacing Dark Knight demanding answers and more of an incessantly broody man being forced to help against his will; a welcome change for the other man in the room. When he asked that same question for the second time that evening, it wasn't intended to inspire cowering fear, but it still came out as more of a demand than anything.

Suddenly, the incapacitated man began to panic. What was he supposed to answer? All of his go-to aliases would tip off the older man to who he really was, ultimately causing even more problems, and there was no way he could give his real name. That, without a doubt, would end in a complete and utter disaster-heavy on the _dis-_-that could potentially result in the hospital exploding. He wasn't sure how, but he just knew that something like that might happen. So, he avoided the question, buying his time. "What day is it?"

Again, the Caped Crusader gave no hint that he was caught off guard by the sudden topic change, hopefully-to the man, at least-writing it off as more crazy ramblings thanks to his head injury. Even to his own, still-ringing ears, though, the less-than-tactful elusion was painfully obvious. "Sunday, November 14, 2010," came the automatic response, and the man quickly did the math in his head. The Team had just begun, then, and it was only a few weeks after their first major mishap. He silently cursed and thanked whatever watched over him, coming to some kind of conclusion and hoping the best would come from the situation. On one hand, he could easily access a plethora of other identities that no one here had even begun to encounter, but, on the other, if his true nature came to light, things would reach a whole new level of catastrophe.

Outwardly, he took the new information in stride, pretending that nothing was out of the ordinary and responding with an absent nod. "Tim- my name's Tim..." he trailed off purposely, realizing that, if he gave a last name, Batman would be able to trace it, discover his lies, and shut down his cover before five minutes had even passed.

"Do you remember your last name?" It was time to play up that amnesiac card, as much as he hated it.

"No," he shook his head, appearing frustrated. "Ugh!"

"Can you remember your friends' last names?"

"...No," again, even to him it sounded weak. _Damn_, he was slipping, and he hadn't even gotten to the tricky part yet. In the uncomfortable pause that followed, Batman scrutinized him, trying to decide something-just what, however, the man was not quite sure... or even if he really wanted to know.

Suddenly, a gloved hand swooped up to a cowled comm.-link, and the injured man was no longer top priority. For now. "This is Batman; proceed." Even through the mask, the man lying abed could see his eyes narrow and his mouth form a thin scowl. Something was wrong. "Are you sure?" Pause. "Anything else?" Pause. Nod. "Batman out." Suddenly, the Dark Knight returned, full force; despite being a tad startled at the abrupt change, though, the man remained unfazed. It had been a while since he had last been intimidated by the Bat.

Before he could say anything, though, the man cut in, his concussed brain running away with his mouth before he could stop it. "That was the Justice League-is something wrong?"

His words did nothing to help his case-though against what, again, he really wasn't sure-as Batman, once again, began looming and ignored his question. "I now have all the more reason to believe that you are lying to me, _Tim_," he spat menacingly, rekindling his view toward the other man as a criminal, and, thus, switching his persona to the less human-like side designed to strike fear into the hearts of lawbreakers. "When you are cleared by the hospital staff, you will be transferred to a secure location for questioning." Just how much trouble was he in, anyway? And what had the call been about? The man simply sat there, more confused than frightened, still one step behind his superior's. Stupid concussion. "You have made yourself a threat in more ways than one, and we do not take that lightly." On that final note, he glided from the room with a _swoosh_, the dark folds of his cape leaving in their wake a stunned young man. Things were going downhill fast, and he struggled to think of a new plan of attack as he absentmindedly scratched at the crimson-stained bandages on his right arm. Funny, he didn't ever remember cutting himself on anything.

* * *

><p>When Red Tornado entered the living area of Mount Justice to deliver a message, he was not surprised-if androids such as himself even had the capacity to comprehend such a complex emotion-to find the five teens in the semi-normal state of chaos that seemed to follow the little group like an adorably annoying stray puppy. Artemis, still attempting to tackle the young speedster to the ground, was now being slowly trailed by Kaldur in an attempt to cool her anger. M'gann, ever the worrier, had joined in, trying to convince Wally to stop provoking her and slow down for a moment, and Connor, unable to stand the disorder any longer, had wandered into the kitchen in an effort to keep his frustrated temper in check. Robin and Black Canary, standing side-by-side off in one corner of the room, watched the entire exchange with matching smirks across their lips, one debating on whether or not to step in, and the other on various ways to make the situation even worse than it already was. Knowing that there was no way to gain the attention of all members of the Team at once, the robot simply nodded in recognition toward the two heroes leaning on the cusp of the madness, before joining them.<p>

"Batman has just contacted me with another mission assignment. He wishes to see the Team in the monitor room, fully outfitted, as soon as possible." His metallic voice relayed, earning raised eyebrows from both.

"Thanks, Red," Canary replied, nodding, before turning to survey the scene before her, trying to figure out the best way possible to round the group up with as little injury as possible. The decision was quickly made for her, however, as a black wire suddenly shot out from somewhere to her side, heading straight for the red blur buzzing around the room. Robin's grappling hook loosely wrapped his best friend's legs, effectively tripping him face down on the plush rug. It was only a matter of seconds before the two others toppled over the fallen boy, with M'gann hovering worriedly above them, asking if everyone was alright.

Before another argument could start, Robin took advantage of the stunned silence. "Bats has a job for us, guys. Let's suit up." The mood clouding the room immediately changed, and soon the five teens-including Connor, who had caught the announcement from the kitchen area with his super-hearing-morphed from rowdy adolescents to heroes-in-training.

That, however, did not stop Wally from slugging his best friend in the shoulder as the group quickly made their way toward their respective rooms to change, and playfully whining, "C'mon, Rob, why so violent? That hurts, man," with a dramatic shake of his head.

Within minutes, the costumed vigilantes were gathered around the holographic screens of the cave's technological center, staring at the screens as their leader briefed them on what was happening. "Our mystery man has regained consciousness," he began, causing several members of the Young Justice to tense-namely Robin, Wally, and M'gann, who had been most disturbed by the events of three nights ago. "But what story I managed to pull from him was inconsistent. Though he outwardly does not seem to intend any harm, the Flash's initial analysis of his Batsuit imitation revealed otherwise."

He paused for a moment, allowing his words to sink in, and inadvertently giving Connor the opportunity to ask, "Why the Flash?"

"My uncle's a forensic scientist," Wally answered proudly, "figuring out what things are is his job."

Batman continued as though he had not been interrupted. "The outfit is an uncannily accurate, though somewhat modified, representation of my own-weapons included-leading to the conclusion that he has had access to exclusively sensitive information regarding myself. Given his obvious knowledge of your secret identity, Kid Flash, he may have been watching the whole Team for quite some time. As of yet, however, I have been unable to uncover just how much he really knows, or what his plans are with such information. He is still slightly impaired by the head injuries sustained by unknown causes, but he is being released into the Justice League's care shortly."

"Has he revealed his own name?" Kaldur asked, a concentrative scowl on his face as he processed the information.

"No, I was only able to acquire a false first name during my initial questioning-he is at least coherent to that extent."

"Where do we come in, though?" Robin stepped forward, not really liking the direction toward which the conversation was headed.

"Yeah, Red said you had a mission for us," Wally added, oblivious to his almost-brother's worry.

"This will as a tactical training experience for you," the Dark Knight responded. "Because this man poses an assumed immediate threat to both you and the League, I will bring him to a secure location for a more extensive interrogation. Thus far, all discipline has been focused toward the physical side of your work. In the future, you will require other skills to obtain information you require to bring down villains of different sorts rather than simply violence. Watching the process of cross-examination will prove both an educational and informative exposure for the Team."

Robin and Aqualad nodded in understanding, while their fellow sidekicks visibly deflated at the inevitable lack of action involved. _Obviously_, smirked the Boy Wonder internally, _they've never seen Batman's version of interrogation. _"Where are you taking him?" he asked, "Assuming we should meet you there."

"I am coming to you," the Bat responded to the shocked teens. "As a former headquarters of the League, the cave is well equipped with a fully operational interrogation room. I would have assumed that you would have explored that area of the mountain by now." M'gann shrugged sheepishly as all eyes turned to her.

"I didn't think the room served any purpose, so I didn't think to mention it."

"This is the Justice League," Artemis rolled her eyes, "_everything_ they do has some reason or another behind it."

Ignoring his teammates, Robin asked his mentor, "But Mount Justice is supposed to be in a secret location-how is he going to get here?"

"Your hideout is not as hidden as you would like to believe," Batman replied, "But, as a precaution, I will bring him through the Zeta Tubes directly from the Hall of Justice. It's a public location, and he will not be able to determine where we are headed thanks to the scrambled method of transport."

"Makes sense," his protégé nodded.

"When should we be expecting you to arrive?" Kaldur was already mentally retrieving the rooms location from their Martian friend as he asked, planning ahead as any good Team leader would.

"In a matter of minutes."

"We shall await your entrance in the viewing room of the interrogation suite."

"Batman out."

As the monitors shut off, the Team exchanged glances containing various degrees of annoyance and worry. This was not how they had planned to spend their Thanksgiving week off: still in school. It was, however, a necessary evil, and soon the five were making their way down the cavernous, seemingly-endless dark halls of the mountain toward their destination. "I wonder how many other secret spots are hidden in this place..." Wally wondered aloud, skipping ahead of his friends.

"It wasn't exactly hard to find, Baywatch-no one but M'gann ever bothered to look, that's all," Artemis retorted with yet another scoff and roll of her eyes.

"Hey, Rob; you've been here tons of times, even before us. Any cool places I haven't seen?" the redhead asked excitedly, granting a juvenile stuck-out tongue as the only response to the otherwise-ignored young archer.

The Boy Wonder thought for a moment, "Well, there's the-"

_Recognized: Batman, 02_

_ Recognized: Robin, B-01_

Everyone came to a screeching halt, eyes turning toward the little black haired boy in front of them. Robin was right there, so who was...

And then all hell broke loose.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Wow! I was shocked at the response I got to this story! You guys are so awesome! I'm really glad y'all are loving this, because I'm having so much fun writing it. Please don't kill me for the cliffhanger, though! I promise to get the next chapter up within a few days-hopefully before the weekend rolls around. As always, I love to hear your feedback (twenty alerts and seven reviews within the first few hours! Thanks so much everyone!), and constructive criticism is always welcome. I'm really sorry if anyone's confused. If y'all just bear with me, I promise that things will start to make more sense! (:<strong>

**EDIT: A few little typos fixed~ hope I got them all! Let me know if you see something, though. (:  
><strong>

**Love to you all~**


	3. Thistles and Weeds

**Chapter Three**

When Batman reentered the hospital room, he found the man—his enemy—struggling to stand at the side of the plastic-railed bed, one hand clutching at the scratchy sheets for some kind stability, the other out in front of him in an effort to balance. "You're being released into Justice League care after you've been deemed stable," the caped man scowled, making to move to help. Though he was capable of empathy, it was not his job to extent such a kindness to the villains he encountered on a daily basis. In the field, behavior like that could result in serious injury or, worse, fatalities. "A nurse should be in shortly to check your vitals."

"Yeah, okay," the injured man gasped through clenched teeth, glaring back at his companion despite knowing that he was in no position for such brash actions. With a curt nod, Batman left for the dim hallway once more, passing a small, brown-haired young woman dressed in the grey-blue uniform scrubs that seemed to be present at every turn of the medical building. She eyed the angry man warily, before turning to her patient with a smile.

"How are you feeling?" She asked cheerily, quickly stepping up to the man as someone to lean on while he regained his footing. After several moments, the world stopped tilting around him, and he was able to hold himself steady. "There you go," she beamed up at him, and the somber expression faded from his face; he simply couldn't bring himself to take out his frustrations on the young nurse.

"Despite feeling like I've just been used as the tackle dummy for a football practice? Excellent," he grinned, winking at her as she giggled and rolled her eyes.

"Well, I'm glad to see you've still got your sense of humor," the woman briefly left his side to check up on his heart monitor, before easing him back to a sitting position. "At least _Gotham's Protector_ hasn't taken that away from you... yet. Now, I know you want to be up and moving around, but I'm going to need to take your blood pressure and I can't be constantly watching to see if you're going to keel over on me." She laughed again, not even noticing the expression on her companion's face.

"What do you mean?"

"About what?"

"That Batman hasn't stopped me from telling jokes."

"Oh, that," she sighed and continued her work as she spoke, shooting an apologetic glance his way when he winced as she pulled the IV needle from his skin, "Don't get me wrong; that man has done some wonderful things for this city—and the world—both on his own and with that Justice League of his. Even so, he takes the definition of 'paranoid' to a whole new level. I swear, if he barges in this hospital one more time, demanding to see one of my patients without waiting for a doctor, I'm going to take one of those fancy toys of his and—oh, never mind," she huffed, furrowing her brow as she paused. "And the way he was demanding your blood be released for DNA testing? God, you'd think you were some kind of criminal or something," an eye roll accompanied her snort.

"And how do you know I'm not? I mean, if _the_ Batman is after me, I'd have to be the bad guy, right?" He raised her eyebrows at her dismissive hand wave as she bent down to retrieve a roll of gauze from one of metal baskets above the bed's headboard.

"Well, that question right there leads me to believe that you're not the villain in this whole situation. I mean, how much of a lowlife would you _really_ be if you could admit that you were one? Besides, you don't seem like you'd ever be the type of person to intentionally hurt someone," the man thought back to the infinite number of cases that would prove her wrong in that regard, "you're too sweet for that."

"You've only known me for, what, three days?" He nudged her as she reached for the seam of his arm bandages.

"I'm a good judge of character," she winked _again_. It took the man a moment to realize that she was flirting with him, but he decided to ignore her advances and play naive. He didn't need to unintentionally hurt another yet person in his life, and, with her strong faith in humanity as a whole, tainting her with his demons would seem almost sacrilegious. "When you got here, though, you were half dead for no apparent reason—physically, there's no way that you could have done anything nefarious, even days before you were brought in. Personally, I think you just freaked the Bat out because of that getup you were wearing. Do you want me to change your dressing?" the man shook his head absently, stuck on what she had said earlier. What state _had_ he been in when he'd arrived at the hospital? Who had brought him there in the first place? He still did not remember much—but, then again, he had been comatose for the past few days. There might not have been much to remember in the first place.

"No, no; it's fine. I'll be sure to do it later. You can just give me everything I'll need, and I'll make sure it gets done." She nodded, removing her hands from his forearm. Despite having very little to eat in days, he had retained most of his muscle tone. He would have to get back in shape before he returned to the streets, though... if he ever made his way back. _No, _he scolded himself. He refused to think that way—he refused to give up. Because if he did, then Chronos had won. He found himself worrying for what felt like the two-hundredth time in the past half hour about the condition of his Robin. The last time he'd seem his partner... he shuddered, praying to whatever god was listening that he was alright.

"Alright, then; you should be all set to go," she smiled once more—was she ever _not_ happy?—and picked up the clipboard resting in a clear-plastic holder on the wall, "I'll have the doctor formally sign you out... Oh, we never did get your name, did we?" She looked at him expectantly.

"Tim." she did nothing in reply other than shoot a strange, almost pitying look his way, and did not press him. "Why don't you get changed," the nurse motioned toward the little bathroom that adjoined the room, but he only stared at her, confused. Didn't she know that he had no other clothes? And his suit had been taken... "There's an outfit hanging on the back of the door, probably from the same person who paid for your bill. It's probably from Mr. Tall-Dark-And-Moody, but I've learned not to question good things." With a dazed nod, he made his way inside and closed the door. Sure enough, there was a shopping bag looped on the towel hook that contained everything he would need: jeans, a white long-sleeved tee, a black short-sleeved over-shirt—it was autumn, after all. Toward the bottom, there were necessities like undergarments, socks, and even a new pair of sneakers. He smiled, knowing exactly who had given him these; not Batman, but Bruce. He must have been in really bad shape for the man to take that much pity on him. Maybe blanking out for a few days _had_ been a good thing...

After a brief debate on whether or not to take a shower in the tiny stall—and deciding not to—he washed his face and quickly changed out of the drafty, uncomfortable hospital gown. The bandages on his head were removed, revealing nothing more than a closed gnash on his right side. His arm wrap remained, though, as he was quickly losing any desire to stay in the building much longer. When he exited back to the main room, the nurse was scribbling something on the tablet, but, when she heard the door open, she turned back, extending a hand. "Much better. It was lovely to meet you, Tim," the man reluctantly shook it, and noticed how she discreetly switched the hold from a handshake to a supporting arm as she led him toward the door. He _was_ still in pain, despite the medication she had injected him with during the checkup. "We can't give you any proper prescriptions without your full name, so you'll be on your own for a while—come back as soon as you can. Until then, stock up on Advil and Tylenol—it's the best you can do at the moment." By then, the pair had slowly made their way into the sterilized lobby, where the receptionist barely spared him a glance as he was released. "Is everything in order, Martha? Room 407?"

"Yeah," the secretary replied, only perking her eyes up from the tabloid she was reading for a moment. "Dr. Miller checked him out and said he could go as long as your report was clear. He's awfully trusting of you, Anne..." She raised her eyebrows without looking up, a suggesting tone creeping into her voice. The nurse flushed, before turning to her charge.

He spoke before she could say anything, neither wanting to get involved nor stay in the hospital much longer. He had never liked being in one place too long... maybe that was simply the traveler in his blood. "Well, I'll be off, then." He smiled at the still-blushing woman, before turning toward the automatic glass doors and waving over his shoulder. The minute he managed to step into the breezy, dark night, however, he realized that he was completely, utterly helpless. Yes, Batman had claimed that he would be the one releasing him, but—aside from that—he had nowhere to go, no other clothes to wear, none of his equipment, and no real name.

And was not even sure where to begin in regards to finding his way home.

Without realizing it, he began wandering away from the hospital, eventually crossing into the dimness of the sidewalks between flickering, cracked streetlights. He was so lost in his thoughts that he barely noticed someone approach him from the shadows, only reacting when he sensed a presence sidled up too close for comfort. Moving on instinct, he immediately shot back an elbow, catching his assailant off guard again with a follow-up blow to the head and a sweeping kick that knocked the feet from under the man, bringing him to the ground—or, well, it should have. Before he processed what was happening, Batman leaped back into his fighting stance and retaliated with a punch of his own. _Tim_, who was already panting and in excruciating pain from pulling his injuries, barely ducked out of the way in time before skipping back a few steps with his hands raised. "Whoa, whoa, I'm sorry—I didn't know it was you, sir," Crap, he'd said it again. Double crap: the Bat wasn't letting up. The man kept backing up, silently hoping that he didn't trip. He was in no condition to fight, let alone take on one of the most feared heroes of all time. "Look, it was an accident. This is Gotham—you could have been anyone! How was I supposed to know?" Though he had stopped letting his fists fly, the Dark Knight was still advancing, right up until he had backed up his prisoner against the crumbling stone wall of one of the many dilapidated buildings surrounding them. The trapped man cringed at his own display of weakness, but—despite not being extremely terrified by the man—he had no desire to become a pounded mound of pulp. And he knew Batman would not hesitate to take action if he felt threatened.

"Impressive," he growled, eyes narrowing behind the cowl. "You have, of course, just made things extremely difficult for yourself, though." With that, he roughly turned the man so that his back was no longer facing toward the bricks and roughly secured his hands behind him with what he knew to be oh-so-cleverly bat-shaped handcuff mimics. Great. The device was, of course, no trouble to escape—he _was_ a master escape artist, after all, and it wouldn't do to taint his reputation—but he knew that things were only going to go downhill from there on out. There was no point in fueling the fiery situation with yet _another_ reason for his idol to distrust him.

"Fair enough," he shrugged, allowing himself to be led onward as a prisoner. "So where are we headed?" He was met only with silence. "Well... can you at least tell me how we're getting wherever we're going?" Nothing. "What about what we're going to do when we get there?" Again, there was no reply. So he started to whistle, knowing it would annoy the stoic man leading him further into the familiar-yet-different city. He wasn't sure what was driving to provoke Batman—the need for _some_ kind of reaction? He never really liked quiet, after all—but somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that it was a bad idea. But, of course, the concussion won out over his common sense, and he kept on butchering the tune to a song of which he could no longer remember the name.

It lasted thirty seconds before he was effectively shut down by a harsh, "Shut up." ...for a moment, before starting up again. After less than a moment longer, Batman turned on him, and the man was half expecting to be hit. All he received, however, was a gloved finger waving in his face. "Legally, I cannot do anything to you, because you haven't done anything against the law... yet, to my knowledge. That, however, has not stopped me before. There are no police involved, so right now I am the only authority you have—until, of course, you screw up. So I'd suggest you do what you're told; I'm not a very patient man, and you have begun to _grate on my nerves_." Even for the Dark Knight that seemed a bit harsh, but, then again, he had no idea what that call from the Justice League had been about earlier in the evening. Something catastrophic could have been happening, and the Bat was stick babysitting him... again. He did not have any memory of some huge event taking place around that time, but, then again, he had already changed so much in the few short days he had been here—and unconscious, no less! There was no telling what kind of damage he could do now that he was up and moving around the world, and the thought of how much he could alter made him shiver. Even the smallest things could have major effects—he would have to be more careful from then on. No matter how many times he told himself to watch out, though, he knew that—now in the custody of the Batman—little remained in his control.

Deciding, for once, to take the hint, the man allowed their journey through the familiar, mazing alleys of Gotham to continue in relative silence. If something _was _amiss, he knew from experience that making the situation worse, whether intentionally or unintentionally, could lead to major disaster—heavy on the _dis_. He had no idea to where he was being led, but he had learned to trust Batman's judgment long ago; if he had said that he was not legally being convicted of anything, he had little to worry about by way of incarceration. There were, however, numerous off-the-record places that he knew of where suspected criminals were taken, none of which were particularly appealing. He only hoped that he was being paranoid, and that the Dark Knight's view of him as an extremely dangerous threat—even though, technically, he was—was merely exaggerated due to some other event happening. ...He highly doubted that, though.

Suddenly, he was being grabbed by the scruff of his collar, and he looked up at the black-clad man just in time to hear a gruff, "Hold on," before they were shooting through the air. By the time he realized what was happening, his feet had already touched ground on the roof of the building they had just scaled with Batman's grapple hook, and he did a double take.

"We're heading out in the Batwing?" he asked, barely containing his excitement. It had been a while since he'd ridden in the sleek black jet—well, _this_ version. But, of course, originals were always better than replacements.

"Batwing?" The Dark Knight paused momentarily to shoot him a look—right... it wasn't called the Batwing here.

"Uh... Batplane, then?" he played stupid, trying to cover his slipup. _Damn_, he really hated this concussion. Hopefully the symptoms would fade soon, but, thanks to the lack of proper food in his system for days, he doubted that he would be feeling healthier anytime soon. There was, however, no response as his companion roughly ushered him forward before shoving him into the back passenger seat and securing his wrists behind him so that he could not access any controls. The man, however, did not seem to mind, and attempted _not_ to act as any young child at Christmas would, taking in all of the things he had missed about the vehicle. Years ago, the jet had always been one of Batman's favorite toys... because, with it, he could _fly_. As the familiar G-force pull pressed him back into the plush seats, he stared out the windows, ignoring the way his position was causing his arms to lose their circulation. Soon, though—or was had it been hours? He had lost track of time—he began to recognize the well-known overhead view of Washington, DC, and realized where they were headed. He opted to stay quiet, though, and hoped that he was wrong. Even as the thought crossed his mind, though, the jet began descending, and, within moments, was landing on the emerald lawn that surrounded the ever-regal Hall of Justice. "You can't take me in there." He stated flatly.

"And why is that? It doesn't seem to me as though you have much of a choice." As Batman said this, he released the transparent hood and leapt out, unhooking the 'bat-cuffs' from their tether to the seat and allowing his prisoner a moment to gather his bearings. The minute his feet touched the ground, though, he captured man took a few steps back.

"No, you don't understand—if you take me in there, some really... bad things... could happen." _Wow, excellent work coming up with a detailed and believable explanation. _He knew where they were really headed, though. The only bit of the Hall that was not a front for the League's adoring public around this time was the Zeta Transporter, and, the minute he stepped into the DNA-analyzing, azure rays what little, shabby cover he had left would be obliterated, fully exposing him to every consequence this world had to offer. Despite his vehement protests—which, eventually, became violent attempts to flee—however, Batman forced him inside. He had no backup plan, and, as a last resort, dove for the monitor controls just as the Batman was entering in coordinates. His idol managed to clip him on the side of his head in an attempt to subdue the panicking man, reopening the nasty wound that would, undoubtedly, need stitches this time around. Taking advantage of the momentary daze, Batman yanked him into the Zeta Tube, preparing to radio the Team that their suspect had become violent. Just as he was questioning how wise it really was to bring this man near the teenagers, the computerized voice announced the travelers' names, but, before he could take any further action, he was blinded by the transportation beam.

_Recognized: Batman, 02_

_ Recognized: Robin, B-01_

* * *

><p>Wally, as usual, was the first one on the scene, though what he saw sent him skidding to a halt, barely able to slow his momentum enough in time to catch himself. The rest of the Team sprinted up moments behind him, all mirroring his reaction—though without the near-falls. Batman, a menacing, furious expression stretched across his mouth, had a bloody, black-haired young man in his early twenties back up against the stone walls of the cave, right forearm pressed against his throat in a subduing chokehold. "Who are you?" he snarled, causing all of the younger heroes except one to shiver involuntarily.<p>

The man, however, only glared defiantly back through slightly glazed, half-lidded eyes, neither noticing their audience. "Ceea ce, eşti surd?" he slurred, the previous head injury he had sustained only exacerbated by the second knocking. While four of the teens only stared on with a mixture of confusion and wariness, though, Robin visibly paled at the man's words, taking an involuntary step back as though he had been slapped. It had been year—too many years—since he had heard that language, but his sharp mind still recognized the dialect on which he had been raised. Batman, too, loosened his grip ever so slightly, surprised—an emotion he experienced so infrequently that he faltered for a moment, unsure of how to react; his hesitation, however, went unnoticed by the others in the room.

"Batman, what is going on?" Kaldur asked, stepping forward, out of his stupor. "Is this the man?" The Dark Knight blinked, before regaining his composure in less than a moment, and dropped his arm, allowing the man to slump forward, gasping for breath.

"Yes, this is him. We seem to have run into a minor... complication, however," he informed the leader curtly, before turning his attention to his partner just as Kid Flash did the same.

"Dude, are you okay?" the redheaded speedster asked, at his best friend's side in an instant. The Boy Wonder still wore an expression of utter disbelief on his features, but quickly shook himself back to reality.

"Yeah; yeah, I'm fine," he waved Wally off, before addressing his mentor, "He's...?"

"Apparently," Batman affirmed just as his captive began to sway on his feet, blinking, slowly. Despite the situation, he reached forward to catch the man before he fell, now assure that he no longer posed any sort of threat to his son's Team.

"Would someone like to explain to me what just happened?" Artemis spoke up after a tense pause. "I have to believe that I'm not the only one confused by this whole thing. Weren't we supposed to be interrogating this guy?" Her snappish words brought everyone back down to some level of normalcy, and soon the heroes were moving into action.

"There will be time for explanations later," Batman replied, scooping the barely-conscious man into his arms, "for now, let's get him to the infirmary. Once he's stable again, we'll talk." With that, he strode down the hall, the Young Justice team trailing behind, struggling to keep up with the Dark Knight's pressured pace. Robin, eyes filled with unanswered questions and mind flooded with a wave of unwarranted memories, quickly caught up with this mentor, hoping for a quiet word before things spiraled out of hand. Instead, however, there was only time for a brief, reassuring glance from Bruce, and the silent promise that they would talk later. Of anyone, the elder man knew the pain of an unexpected reminder of loved ones once lost. When they reached the medical room, he carefully laid the man—who had, once again, fallen unconscious—on one of the cots and took his pulse. Finding that it was steady, though a bit weak, he sidled up a heart monitor as a precaution, as well as beginning a light fluid drip. He had not eaten in days, and that was likely aiding in his body's inability to right itself for an extended amount of time. Silently, he hoped that he would not slip into the comatose state that he had days prior, and would wake soon.

He looked up to find the five Team members huddled directly outside the room's threshold, all having formed a protective half-circle around his partner without realizing it. Though he was the farthest from helpless and possessed the most experience, Robin's young age brought out the older-sibling sides of his friends. With secretive, sad half smile at how close his little bird had become with the others, Batman began cleaning the newly-opened wound on the man's head, turning his mind back to the more urgent task at hand: figuring out just who, really, their mysterious intruder was. It was fairly easy for the World's Greatest Detective to line up the facts into several speculative theories, but the one answer that every bit of data seemed to point toward was far too far-fetched for the logical man's liking. Yes, it was plausible—possible—but it remained highly unlikely. As he worked, he was hyper-aware of the multitude of eyes watching him, unsure of what to do and waiting for him to give them something—anything—to work with. He had, after all, called them for a mission, and this was not the way he had intended for things to play out.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Martian glance around to the members of her team, some of whom were now watching, and receive an encouraging nod from Aqualad. "Batman," she said, clearing her throat in an attempt to lessen the ever-present timidity in her voice, "would it be helpful if I looked into his thoughts?" She seemed so shrink away under the dark gaze of Robin's mentor, and the Atlantean stepped forward to intervene.

"Given the circumstances, it could be beneficial in determining both his identity and whether or not he poses a continued threat to the League and our Team," he added logically, placing a hand on M'gann's shoulder for encouragement.

"Yeah, we don't know what this guy is capable of, and, personally, I don't want him growing a second head and murdering us all in our sleep... or something," Kid Flash added, trailing off after a swift elbow from Artemis.

"What he _means_," she corrected, glaring at the wincing redhead, "is that we don't even know if he's human or not, or what kind of hidden abilities he might have. Any information you might have and are not telling us would be helpful at the moment; we have a right to know who's being held in our base." Superboy grunted in agreement, arms crossed over his chest, but he was focused on the distraught Martian rather than Batman.

Gotham's protector considered their offer, looking toward the one member of the Team who had not offered input. His gaze was trained on the comatose man, brow furrowed as he considered the options. There were risks involved with both, the most dangerous of which for M'gann being the man's already damaged brain thanks to his numerous injuries. But, Hadn't Martian Manhunter said that their friend had the strongest telepathic mind he had ever encountered? In all likelihood, she would be fine, and they would gain the answers they needed to put the mission—and their curiosity—at rest. He turned back to his father, and silently communicated his assent in the secret, understood language that only the two shared, not needing his words to convey his inner turmoil to the man. _We don't have much of a choice; might as well go ahead and let her do it. _Batman nodded, their conversation going unnoticed by all members of the Team excepting Wally, who had known the two long enough to recognize the signs, and during the pause the others had begun to grow restless. Eventually, he nodded addressing Kaldur, "If that is your decision as leader of this Team, proceed as you see fit." While he, technically, had authority over the children, the evening _had _been intended as a training exercise, and he had every intention of letting them make their own way. That being said, however, he could not help but recognize that, if Robin had disagreed, he would have shut the idea down immediately.

With a deep, calming, breath, Miss Martian stepped forward to place her fingers on the man's temples, abolishing the mind link established between the teenagers over which they had been communicating only moments before. Within moments, she was swept into the churning waves of the man's subconscious mind, lost to the physical world around her.

* * *

><p><em>Her Martian eyes adjust after the bright flash of light, signaling she has entered his thoughts. As she looks around, she notices that her surroundings have changed; it's not surprising, but she can't help but feel confused as to where she's landed. The wall in front of her<em>_—__if it could be called such__—__is simply a brightly colored, striped drape of fabric, and below her feet is a rocky dirt floor. From behind the fabric, the sound of applause catches her attention, startling her, and she involuntarily camouflages herself, making her body invisible to any passerby. Curious, and not sure where she had landed, she crouches down and lifts up the curtain, nearly blinded once again by the bright light that accosts her from inside, permeating the darkness that surrounds her. She realizes, now, that she is outside, peeking into what appears to be some kind of enormous tent. Wooden bleachers line the interior, forming a half-circle around the exposed middle ground. Spotlights are trained on a short, somewhat round man in a coat-tailed suit and top hat is speaking, urging the crowd brimming from the seats to quiet themselves. "You all have been a wonderful audience tonight, and we have one more special treat. Please welcome__—__"_

_ "What are you doing here?" a low voice hisses just as M'gann is grabbed from behind and roughly pulled away from the tent. She whips around, coming face-to-face with a man, and notices belatedly that she is no longer invisible. How...? It takes her a moment to recognize him, but she soon realizes that the man before her is the same one lying incapacitated back at the Cave. When she does not answer him, he continues. "You shouldn't be here; it's dangerous. Leave _now_." He glares at her, fists and teeth clenched, but she musters up the side of her usually reserved for missions__—__this is a mission, isn't it?—and stares defiantly back._

_ "Who are you?" she asks, ignoring his dramatic warnings and slipping into a fighting stance. While he looked dangerous, he was exuding more worry and fear than any actual desire to harm her. Still, there was no harm in being careful—she was only a telepathic projection, after all, and it was he who had almost complete control of her environment. "Where are we?"_

_ "Trust me; the less you know, the safer you are. Now get_ out_ of my head, or I will _force_ you out," his glare intensified, darkness swirling in its depths, and suddenly she was falling. Scenes flashed before her mind's eye, and she struggled to process them all as a sinister, echoing laughter reverberated all around her. A grieving group of eccentrically dressed people; an enormous, expensive house with a grey-haired, somber man holding the door open; a dark bedroom filled with the sounds of a crying child just as a frantic man bursts through the door; members of the Justice League staring down toward something; the faces of her own team; a young man screaming at someone who appears to be his father, yelling right back; a new group of teenagers, also in costume, staring out at a small, empty island; a dark city, rampant with criminals prowling its alleyways, so different yet somehow familiar; a teenaged boy and a young child arguing with another young man; a brutal, bloody fight between two men; a boy dressed as Robin taunting the new Batman; a portly man in a pig mask being beaten. The image of a building exploding plays itself over and over, until she can feel the earth beneath her feet quaking and she becomes weak with the extreme heat that waves through the air, falling to her knees, gasping. _

_ "This is it. Batman and Robin. Together again for the first time."_

_And, suddenly, she knows._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: PLEASE DON'T EAT ME. a) I know I said I would have this up by Friday, but... it's still Thursday in China? Actually, I don't think it is... crap... I'M SORRY. b) Yes, I understand if this chapter is confusing, but that's because it's actually only, like, half of a chapter. (I never bothered to look at my word count, and freaked out when I saw that I was somewhere past 10,000 words...) I had to split it up somehow, and this was the best possible place to do it. So I'll keep saying it, and hopefully I'll be telling the truth this time: ALL SHALL BE REVEALED NEXT CHAPTER. :D<strong>

**Thank you guys so much for all your wonderful reviews/favorites/alerts! It's y'all who keep me writing. (: Feel free to hand off any comments (good and bad) by hitting that little button down there. Much love to you all!**

**~Darian**

**P.S. Tim... heehee, SEE WHAT I DID THERE? ...No? ...That's cool, too... XP**

**(double) P.S. Glimare asked me to translate what "Tim" said: _What, are you deaf? _:D**


	4. Monster

**Chapter Four**

Tension hung thick and heavy like a damp woolen blanket over the small, white-washed room as the Team gazed nervously at their frozen teammate. While Batman continued to dress the fallen man's numerous wounds, the younger Team stood by in a way that could only be described as awkward, unsure of what to do or how to react. So much had happened in the last hour that was not according to any sort of plan or scenario they had ever trained for, and some of the newer heroes were vastly unprepared. Noticing this, the Dark Knight did the only thing he could: watch out for his own. "Robin, come help me with this," he asked quietly, hoping to distract at least his son from the worry that floated through the air like an annoying little firefly. The Boy Wonder nodded silently, obediently moving to aide his mentor with the task of clearing blood from their charge's face with a damp cloth and disinfectant. Carefully maneuvering himself around Miss Martian's still form, he set to work, his advanced brain struggling to make sense from the situation through the fog of emotion clouding his thoughts. _Ceea ce, eşti surd?_

_What, are you deaf?_

Once Robin struggled—no, struggled was not the correct word, as the language still, even after so many years, flowed easily for him—through the words themselves, he began to process their meaning. Or, rather, there literal definition. But what of their purpose? There had been no other answers given—no other questions asked—excepting Batman's repeated inquiry of the man's identity. The Team had arrived on the scene within moments of the Zeta Beam AI's announcement, and there had been no other opportunity for any conversation to be had between those two fixed points. So what had he been referring to? Surely it wasn't... no, that was not possible. But, then again, he _had_ been found wearing a copy of Batman's suit. The man could have, honestly, been delusional in believing himself to be the _actual_ Dark Knight. Somehow, Gotham managed to churn out a steady stream of lunatics and sociopathic maniacs, so what made one more any separate from the rest? Nothing. And a less-than-stable mental state had never stopped the madmen frolicking around his city any less prone to acquiring fancy toys, just like the ones that were, apparently, present in the mock Batsuit.

Despite his worst-case-scenario musings, however, Robin could not help but feel that there _was_ something different about this man. First and foremost, he had an absolute loyalty to Batman, and trusted his judgment above all—even after the failed training exercise that had, initially, been his idea. If the Dark Knight had deemed the mysterious man safe—sane—enough to bring into the Team's presence, the man had to have posed no major threat. ...Right? Right. Secondly, for the brief few minutes combined that he had been in the stranger's presence, he had not been given the impression that the man was dangerously unstable in any way. At first, he had seemed frantic, lost, confused. It was exponentially unnerving for those first few moments when he was crying out for _a _Robin, and his internal panic level had shot through the roof when he had called Wally by name. Despite that, however, he had never tried to harm the Team in any way. Granted, he had been severely injured and on the verge of collapse, but there had never been a moment when he had feared for his safety. Earlier that evening in the living area, however, was a somewhat different story. While the man had not fought back to his knowledge, he _had_ been severely beaten, courtesy most likely of the Dark Knight himself. If Batman had felt provoked to such actions... No, he had only appeared cocky, if not still desperate. And Robin knew from experience that men in desperation did things contrary—sometimes completely perpendicular—to their nature without fully processing their actions. Even further, still, though—disregarding any previous physical evidence—the Boy Wonder felt _drawn_ to the man, as though they held some dark secret in common, between only them; something private shared with no one else in the world. It was a strange sensationkindredness to someone who he had never met—and he only hoped, for both his sake and the man's, that only good things came around from that moment on.

While Batman tended to the man's head wound, Dick lifted up the stranger's sleeve and began the wince-worthy task of unraveling the bandages on his right forearm. The gauze was stained an ugly, rusty red-brown from blood both dried and new, and, Robin thought with some level of amused detachment, the layout seemed almost like a piece of modern art on an uneven canvas. Any further contemplations were brought to a screeching, abrupt halt, however, as Miss Martian's eyes opened with a gasp and shriek, and she was thrown backwards forcibly just as the man shot up into a sitting position, a snarl escaping from his clenched teeth. Veins bulged from the straining muscles in his arms and neck as he panted, gasping, eyes ablaze with what Robin could only describe as the perfect blending of fear and anger. Instantly, Batman's hands were on the stranger's shoulders, subduing him, pushing him down, as Superboy and the rest of the Team raced to where their friend was still slumped on the ground, wide, shocked gaze trained on the man still glaring back at her. He struggled against the Dark Knight, and Robin's mind kicked into gear enough so that he made way to assist his father.

"Don't say it!" the man snarled to M'gann, pushing against the pressuring hands forcing him to the bed. "Don't tell them! You have _no idea_ what could happen if you do!" He was bordering on berserk, and the green-skinned girl only stared at him, making no indication that she understood.

"Megs, can you hear me? Are you okay?" Wally shook her shoulders gently, trying to elicit some response, but he could produce none.

Connor tried, as well, only to end with the same result. Enraged, he shot up, lunging for the man before anyone could stop him. "What have you done to her?" he growled, pinning him by the scruff of his collar. When the man did not answer immediately, Superboy shook him, and Robin saw the man's eyes roll ever so slightly back into his head.

"Superboy, stop!" Batman yelled, yanking the boy off his victim and pinning his arms behind his back. For a moment, Dick feared that Connor would strong-arm his way from the man's grip, but he seemed to physically deflate, realizing what he had done as the sudden movement jerked the injured man from his platform. The sudden, jolting impact of tile meeting lacerated flesh and fragile bone effectively cut off the man's strangled snarlings, morphing them into one long, twisting, agonized moan that trailed off into quiet after a few moments. All was silent for a second, the chaos dissipating from the atmosphere as quickly—if not faster than—it had first arrived. Startling everyone from their stupor, M'gann suddenly broke free from the worried hands surrounding her, rushing to the fallen man's side. Her actions, as confusing as they were, returned all those present to reality, and the Dark Knight was soon helping her lift the man back onto the medical bed. His breaking was shallow, strained, as he fought to stay conscious through clenched teeth and eyes squeezed shut, sweat glistening on his brow as his body raged to protect and repair itself.

Gently, Miss Martian brushed several shaggy, sticky, ebony locks from the older man's face, trying to soothe him. "Shh, stay with me, okay? Stay with me," Her one-hundred-eighty-degree behavior was a stilling shock to everyone in the room, but she was oblivious to their reactions as the turned toward Batman. "Isn't there anything you can do for him?" she cried, distraught, tears nearly welling in her eyes as she glanced back at the man barely writhing in excruciating misery. "He's in pain! Help him!" she turned back toward him as his breathing began to slow, and the four other teenagers could only watch as she began stroking his forehead once more. Quick to respond, Batman snapped to action, gathering supplies and injecting a dose of painkiller into the fluid drip and reinserting the needle where it had been ripped from his arm by the fall. "You're going to be okay, Robin, just stay with me." She remained unaware of her surroundings even as she said it, not conscious of what she was saying—only that she needed to reassure the deteriorating man. The young Boy Wonder, upon hearing his name, turned toward her, before exchanging confused looks with the rest of his team.

Suddenly, the man's right arm shot up, gripping her hand and startling the young Martian. While she remained unfazed, everyone else in the room tensed, ready to spring into action should anything happen in the unlikely event that it would. "You can't tell them my name," he rasped, focus slowly slipping as his eyes glazed closed. "Don't say who I..." his words faded as he slumped back onto the skewed pillows. Terrified, Miss Martian jerked her head to face the Dark Knight, who held up his hand in reassurance.

"Don't worry; that's only the anesthetic taking effect. It should keep his body from going into shock and slipping into a coma once more," At his answer, she visibly relaxed, her whole body going limp as she tilted back toward the floor in an uncomfortable sitting position. Before she could hit the ground, though, Connor was at her aide, catching and supporting her, cradling her exhausted form as best he could.

"Uh, hey, so does someone want to fill me in on what's happening here?" Wally spoke up after a beat of silence.

"Believe me—if anyone knew, they'd tell you." Artemis shot back, just as perplexed by the whole thing as the rest of the team.

Batman was busy readjusting the various monitors around the room and made no move to add anything, so Kaldur stepped forward, not having said anything during the whole ordeal and looking to redeem himself as leader of the Team. "There is nothing more for us to do here. Perhaps it would be beneficial for—"

"Um, guys?" the shaken tone in Robin's voice made everyone freeze and face him, but the Boy Wonder's eyes were not focused toward the others. Instead, he was gazing, wide eyed, down at the man's right arm, now exposed as the loosened wrappings had dislodged themselves during the commotion. Carved into the swollen, bloody flesh were three words:

_No more Batman_

* * *

><p>It was a strange feeling. All at once agonizing, destructive, tormenting... invigorating. He had, at one time, used all of those adjectives—and many more—to describe it, but, after so many centuries—or had it only been minutes? Seconds?—his senses had eventually numbed to the sensation, and he became immune to the twisted torture of having every molecule of his body ripped apart from each other without his control every few moments. It was the type of pain that drove lesser men to madness... but, then again, maybe he had stepped across that threshold long ago. Or not so long ago. It was so hard to see, think, <em>feel<em> clearly any more. And yet, he _relished_ in his gift, paying for his crimes with every excruciating breath he took, yet multiplying that punishment exponentially with every breath he _stole_. It was a hellish, inescapable circle that he, himself, had created, because, really, his life was simply moving forward—backward, sideways—on borrowed time, sucked from the potential lives of others. That was his curse—his blessing. But to him, it was simply yet another clause in the oft-ignored and yet always-present little rule booklet to the game of humanity. He lived—and died—with and by it now, without thinking... or caring.

Precisely four seconds after the Bat's insignificant plaything had torn through his chest, he felt his control slipping, though, and for a brief, unheard-of, sane moment, he _did_ care, honestly caught off guard for the first time in far too long. He was developing a dangerous pride, and it had cost him.

Nearly thirteen seconds following the initial impact, the imbecile himself had taken away his only chance of an anchor to that dimension, destroying any possibility of this turn's being carried out and continued in the _exact_ way he had intended. And, once again, he had been hit with that disturbingly _mortal_ buzz of _surprise_; he felt his clawed hold jolt and slide like water through a clean roof. It happened in less than think of an eye, as it usually did, but the demonic poison that coursed through his veins—and yet was not _really_ present in his body at all—was no longer under his control. He felt helpless, reminded distantly of those first few months of frantic, hallucinatory panic and discombobulation, and forced himself _not _to succumb. He was too good—far too superior—for that kind of primitive weakness. He _would_ finish this round of the game, whether it be intentional, past his conscious control, according to the vision of master piece in his mind's eye, or spontaneous and last-minute.

He allowed the aura of ending to spread, pushing the ever-present curse to his bidding as he had once mastered; scrambled, broken thoughts and strips of his murderous desires slipping through the air, becoming tangible within time, itself. Inside his safe-haven, domain, prison.

Bits of his physical presence, his essence, and his will were dragged through the golden rays of time and space in that masochistically invigorating way unique to the action of one's whole existence being carefully sectioned off from its own pieces. He saw, felt, _knew_, though, that the devils had bent to his wishes. He had brought a guest into the sacred, unholy haven of something that should not be tempered with, and he could have cackled with glee as he directed the insane purpose of his twisted experiment toward his newest victim. Even still, he was fully aware that he possessed no true control this go-round, and the hold held on his unwilling companion slipped away all-too-quickly, leaving him alone once more to travel without his consent. He watched, fascinated, after the Bat faded from the realm between dimensions, as images flashed before his eyes and passed through his mind. His injured form was conflicted, struggling to repair itself before it could generate fully in one specific moment.

_The man was tall, spindly, and angered—even that was evident through the demonically-stitched burlap sack that obscured his facial features. The atmosphere was dark, but what little light there seemed to be illuminated a clawed mahogany table that might have once been regal, beside which he was standing. "That investment cost me_ _thirteen thousand dollars! _Thirteen thousand_! Do you know how long that's going to take for me to replace? And then that moron had to go and get himself caught—where the hell am I going to find another supplier who can produce on that scale? I haven't made the Toxin on my own for years; there's no telling how long that could take!" He slammed both fists on the tabletop, causing the whole structure to creak and rock, as he whipped his head around to some unseen life. "Find me the Joker. He was just as much a victim as I was in this little catastrophe, and I just _know_ he'll get a kick out of this little bit I have planned," a hellish chuckle rippled through the space, quickly turning into a snarl as his orders, apparently, were not being carried out fast enough. "Find him!"_

Two days passed.

_"You rang, Hollow Boy?" A high-pitched voice giggled from the blackness as three straw-stuffed goons writhed on the floor in fits of mad, agonizing laughter. He was met with a singular, rhythmic applause that could only just be heard of the echoing cackles as the first man—if he was even worthy of such a description any longer, so warped with a twisted, crazed mental sickness as he was—stepped over his fallen employees, uncaring as to their sealed, doomed fate. _

_ "I did indeed, my dear Joker; I did indeed," his voice was rich with the timbre of a smirk as a green-haired, scar-faced madman emerged from his not-so-hiding place to face him in the dreary light. _

_ "And to what do I owe such the pleasure of this visit?" he snarled gleefully, bloody grin curling up at the corners of his cherry-red split mouth. "Harley's out of town—what could you possibly want with just little ol' me?" He croaked a squeaky giggle. _

_ The Scarecrow held his hands together, "I have a proposition for you..."_

Three days farther.

_The two men stood, face-to-face, as their already-strained temporary truce was stretched once again. "How do _you_ know this is going to work?" Scarecrow snarled, forcing himself into the face of his fellow villain. "At least my plan had the potential to work—_yours_ is practically the same thing as lighting that damn Batsignal the Commissioner set up!"_

_ "Ah-ah!" The Joker scolded as he waggled a teasing, condescending, white-gloved finger in his face, "Unfortunately, Batsy won't be here to enjoy the show; he's been low on the radar lately, haven't you noticed? My guess is he's off on one of those missions of his with that wanna-be Scout Troupe he's so apt to play with. Tonight," he twisted around, wrapping an arm a little too tightly around the Scarecrow's shoulders as he waved his hands extravagantly, "It's just you, me, the Sun Idiot, and all the fun we can handle!" Both men laughed, one maniacal and the other with a hint of uneasiness, as they made their way forward. _

The sensation of returning to the physical plane was not unlike slamming into a well-thickened fortress of stone, knocking the wind from damaged lungs alongside obliterated internal-organs and completely destroying any skeletal structure, though, in reality, no such thing ever occurred. He arrived, as usual, in that unnoticed moment between seconds, tattered, torn, bruised, broken... yet otherwise unaffected. Immediately—even before he had the chance to gather his corporeal bearings—he sensed when he had materialized; yet another perk gained from his "gift". November 25, 2010: Thanksgiving Day. Approximately 3:23:47AM.

3:23:48AM

3:23:49AM

3:23:50AM

3:23:51AM

Chronos felt himself fully solidify on the solid plane, and immediately his self-thought superior mind began processing the world around him.

He was flat on his face, cheek pressed against the scraggly, dying remains of what could have once been grass on the too-cold, frost-covered ground. One leg was bent at an odd, unnatural angle, twisted to the cracking point under his heavy torso as he lay still in the early-morning blackness. Slowly—but not too slowly, as the pain no longer affected him—he untangled his limbs from the rest of his body, pulling his tattered, emerald cloak about him in an effort to balance the tilting world. Somehow, the sky seemed to radiate a bloody red central to the dilapidated, crumbling structure that so towered before him, and the soft coos of a phantom water's lapping could be heard nearby. What little foliage there was came in the form of three sparse skeleton trees spread across the barren front lawn inside a surrounding black wrought-iron spiked fence, the sides of which kissed a rusty, only-for-show style twisted gate featuring a comically horror-movie-style metal sign that declared the place _Blackgate Penitentiary _before the bridge leading off what he now realized was an island disappeared into the eerie mist. He was faced with two options as his strength once again began dwindling: follow the path outwards into the unknown in hopes of finding life, or travel inward toward the facility as a forward to his search for a victim. Ultimately, he decided upon the latter of the two, if only out of necessity—if he did not find nourishment soon, he would fade into nothing, eternally separated from his body into the timestream in much the same way that a speedster would die without a constant supply of proper energy. Because, with every step he took through the continuum, he spent a lifetime, and the last hourglass he had sapped was sucked dry in an effort to heal his wounds.

Not soon enough, Chronos found himself stumbling at the secondary gate guarding the heavily-armed facility. To what should have been his surprise, the always-crackling fatally electric wires were no longer buzzing though the silent autumn night, and the automated box that screened visitors sparked and smoked, its damage still fresh from whatever attack had befallen it. Though neither would have been a hindrance to the self-proclaimed Lord of Time, the energy it would have taken him to surpass both primitive means of security was more than he was willing to spare, and, if he had still been capable of such emotion, he could have been thankful for the reprieve. Without hesitation, he strode into the main courtyard, easily slipping through the creaking steel-barred barriers, and within moments he had entered the main concrete building. Immediately, he made for the glassed-in box of what should have been the night watchman, only to find the uniformed guard slumped dead in his seat. Chronos growled—there was no life to be taken from a man whose time had already been used up—and continued on his way, unfazed as he passed carnage after carnage of deceased policemen, only feeling the hunger grow inside him to the point of an anguish he, for once, felt with every force. The multi-faceted vision through which every event in time flowed began to blur, and, as he continued through the mazes of too-empty cells and bloodied humans, he began to doubt his decision. Had he made a mistake? No, he never made mistakes. Error was for the weak, the inferior, the _mortal_. What felt like an eternity passed.

3:38:19AM

3:38:20AM

3:38:21AM

And then he felt it—the pulsing of a life; no, two—three. Possibly more; his hazy mind clicked on, each tick of an imaginary clock reverberating through his skull. He was nearing ever so close; he could almost hear a conversation vibrate through the still air. _"Shh—I hear someone coming. Are you sure you got all the guards?"_

_ "Of course I'm sure, you idiot! Now quit imagining things and help me tie him up. I've got one dose left, and I intend to make this as slow and painfully long as possible."_

_ "No, really—It might be the Bat. I swear, if you lied to me—"_

_ "Why would I lie to you? If it is Batsy—which it's not—I would be just as dead as you."_

There was a light up ahead; almost too dim to be called anything illuminating, but still brighter than the damp walkways he had been making his way through until this point in his too-long journey. It glinted off a copper plate screwed to the stone wall to his right, and he suddenly realized why he was so uncannily alone in what should have been a populated haven for the worst of Gotham's sane. _G-1, _he was in the prison's sublevels, rarely used excepting times when the Asylum was in need of overflow space. When that happened, the two sets of inmates had to be separated to an extent in an attempt to prevent catastrophe on some scale—there was a reason the two facilities were separated, after all.

His whole being felt dusty, as though he was crumbling from the inside out—he thirsted.

_"That's a lie; you know the Bat doesn't kill."_

_ "That's beside the point. But it'd be back to Arkham for the both of us, regardless."_

Three heartbeats—the tick-tocks of life—one faster than the others, came into view, soon following the in-focus of their hosts. Just as had been predicted, Chronos had fallen into the particular stream of events shown in the Time Flashes, and, here, now, standing before him, were the two costumed men who had the gall—the nerve—to refer to themselves as criminal masterminds. Under any other circumstances, he would have scoffed at their petty attempts to elevate themselves; now, though, he found he had no energy to care. Rather, he honed in on his target, fading the nuisances from his peripheral vision. Yes, he was perfect: a relative feast laid out upon a silver platter. The man was thin, young, and muscular—he had such a long life of potential waiting in his hourglass—and had already been prepared for him, hog-tied with barbed wire as he was. There was no way to fight back; no precious Time need be wasted on subduing his victim.

"Hey, looks like we got ourselves a party crasher," a maniacal voice—the Joker, he presumed, based on the undertone of laughter—crowed from his left, and there was a glint as the perpetually-grinning man stepped forward, trademark crowbar slapping against a white-gloved hand. So they had been planning to beat the man; torture him, perhaps? Such trivial details... why concern himself with the matters of mortals? It would no longer matter in moments. "Poor fool looks a bit tuckered; let's help him get to night-night, shall we?" The maniac clicked his tongue, tilting his head to the side as the scars on his marred face pulled upwards.

"This'll be a nice little warm-up, eh?" Scarecrow agreed as he produced his ever-present scythe, the weapon expanding out to reveal its jagged, blood-stained edges. Chronos almost smiled sadly—almost—at the beauty of the weapon; it had the potential for such grace... a pity it was wasted on those who did not truly appreciate its murderous wonder.

The once-man sighed inwardly, exhausted and in pain. He wanted, _needed_, and yet these _fools_ were preventing him from _having_. For less than a moment, he contemplated simply taking them all—but, then, where was the fun in that? With a weak wave of his hand, he wheezed a laugh, and the advancing men halted mid-stride, violent grins still plastered across their faces as they froze. They thought him weak? Why not make them _watch_. What would their reactions be? It was a game of chance, really—different, yet the same, as every other game he had played before. Set a thing in motion and see what happened as a result. Would they revel in the sight? Would they cower in fear? He stumbled onward, his gasping chuckles morphing into hums as his red-stained viridian cape swooshed past the forced onlookers—oddly Holiday; appropriate for the upcoming season—toward the trembling, gagged man still helpless on the floor. In a rare moment of fancy—what fun was any game if it was all too straightforward?—he ripped the torn cloth from his victim's mouth. It was always interesting to hear their last words.

"Wh-who are you?" The man asked, Spanish-accented voice still tinted gravelly from the chemicals seeped into his silencer.

"That's such a loaded question, isn't it?" Chronos replied with a tuneless murmur, tilting his head to the side so as to gain a better view of his onlookers. "But what about you, you poor, unfortunate soul? Or do you even still have a soul—no, you do, don't you? Because I know what it's like to live without one, and it isn't really living at all." He rambled, barely making any coherent sense as he choked another laugh. He was tired, oh so tired... It was Time.

"I am— I-I am..."

"You are nothing," Chronos reached out a shaking hand and dropped it onto the man's head, "You are no one," he cried out as though burned, and suddenly a roaringly quiet sound like grains of sand clinking against glass filled the too-still, stagnantly damp air, "You never were," the agonized wails dipped into sobs of terror, pain, excruciating torment, as his hair wisped into grey and his skin faded to pale and began to peel. Slowly, though it happened in only a second's Time, it seemed as though the air and water had been slurped from the drug dealer's body, leaving the shell of an old man. "You never will be." Flakes of blood-tinted flesh dusted to the unforgiving ground as his body caved in on itself, revealing shriveled organs and yellowing bone. Even so, it continued, each bit disintegrating until all that remained was burgundy mass of human ashes. Beautiful, glorious evidence of his life, given up for a greater cause. Chronos hummed again, the sounding coming clearer and stronger this time as he uncurled himself and stood straight on his feet. He paused, listening to the ticks of his companions. Were they scared? Did he frighten them?

It wasn't likely, but—then again—the game was only just beginning.

* * *

><p>After the initial shock regarding the demented message wore off—but still just before the panic had the chance to set in—Batman took charge, answering his son's silent question even before he had the chance to ask it. "It's a relatively new wound; no more than a few days old, likely caused the day he was found, a theory furthered by the fact that his right... glove was in shreds from where the injury occurred. The direction of the strokes and surrounding lacerations indicate that it was <em>not <em>self inflicted, and more than likely done against his will. He has given no indication of being aware of it, however, and it is likely that either his mind has suppressed it or he chooses not to acknowledge its presence. And yes, I was informed by the hospital staff when he was brought in." He nodded curtly, before moving to clean the wound.

The teenagers were pensively silent in response, the conversation's forced termination clearer than tap water in the Dark Knight's tone. There was no room left for further inquiries or input, and Kaldur took this as his silent cue to continue ushering his Team from the room. "If that is so, there is no cause for us to be alarmed. Do you believe he does not, then, intentionally plan to harm you in any way?" Batman nodded ever so slightly; he was not a trusting person, and could never _truly_ be sure of one man's goodness or its opposite. There was, however, too much evidence toward the former for the World's Greatest Detective to profess any immediate nefarious aim. "And M'gann detected no malice intent while looking into his psyche?" He was met with a fervent head shake.

"R—he would _never_ harm any of us on purpose; especially Batman," she insisted, shooting a serious look to each team member to drive home her point before finally addressing Gotham's protector. "From what I could gather, he... he cares about us all very much." Upon receiving skeptical looks from her teammates, however, she quickly amended her statement. "Not in a weird way, or anything! He just... knows us better than one would expect."

Wally shifted his feet nervously, sharing a loaded glance with his best friend. "You're really not helping your case here, M'gann."

"Yeah," Robin added, "That doesn't exactly sound like he's _not_ a threat. If anything, it just proves that he knows _way _more than he should."

Before the Martian could add anything more, though, Kaldur tried to regain some sort of control on the situation. "Here is not the best place to discuss such matters," he placed a hand on each of the boys' shoulders, "but we will continue this debate elsewhere, in a more... secure location." He cast a glance toward the man's prone form, taking in the way his eyes fluttered behind their lids. He was, indeed, unconscious, but it was a well-known fact that people still had the brain capacity and basic functionality to subconsciously hear and pick up things said around them while in such a state.

In response, Miss Martian stood from where she had still been kneeling by the victim's bedside, clenching her fists in an uncharacteristically negative emotional display. "I _told_ you guys! He won't—"

"Sorry, babe, but Kaldur's right," Kid Flash interjected. "We should probably head out, just in case."

"Hey, don't cut her off!" Superboy growled in response, stepping toward the relatively small ginger.

Immediately, Robin stepped forward to nip the clone's anger in the bud, holding his hands between the two glaring young men. "Guys, guys—we need to stay whelmed, okay? We can't get anywhere if we're at each other's throats. I'm right with you when you say that something's off about this whole thing, but we need to keep our heads."

With his son's ascertain, Batman materialized, tucking several medical vials of a purple-red liquid substance into his sunflower utility belt. "Whatsoever you and your Team decide, I will return in several hours."

"Is that... blood?" M'gann, horrified, swooped forward, visibly paling as she made to grab the Dark Knight's arm in a momentary slip of mild panic. Batman, however, was quick, as usual, and easily evaded her grasp with a glare. "You can't take his blood! He doesn't... And I promised... You just _can't_!"

"Regardless of whom he claims or you believe him to be, there is always the possibility that he is not telling the truth. Someone with the mental training to expel a telepath from his or her mind might also hold enough ability to manipulate you and your perceptions, as untrained as you are," it was simply a statement of fact—there was no implied insult or biting edge, but Miss Martian felt it all the same. It angered her to think that, even after all they had been though as a team, there was still a doubt shrouding her abilities. Yes, she knew that she was not by any means to the level of her uncle, but she had potential—strong, potent, dormant skill waiting to be unlocked. Did that not count for something? Somewhere, deep within the recesses of her expansive mind, she knew that she was slipping, but she could not prevent herself from snapping.

"You have no idea what the consequences could be!" she ground out, metamorphosing before their eyes from the sweet, worried young girl to the aged, war-torn Martian some knew but refused to believe was locked inside. "You don't know everything—you haven't _seen_ everything, despite who you are, Batman! I've witnessed what he's been though in his life, and doing this could cause him even more unnecessary pain." By now, she had approached Gotham's protector with a dark, melting force that crackled with a deep negative energy she so often held hidden from the world. But what she had peeked at in the fallen man's mind broke her ever so slightly, cracking the innocent, naive facade she upheld to protect her friends. So much pain, sadness, anger... it all mirrored her own to a degree. She felt a connection—not simply as a friend from so many years past, but as a fellow comrade in arms within the bloody war against fate's hand. "Do _not_ hurt him again—do not _torture_ him more than you already have." Her final words were snarled in a deadly whisper, echoing through the heavy, stunned silence that followed long after she had pushed past the Dark Knight and her remaining teammates, disappearing into the dimly-lit halls of the mountain.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Okay, well, this chapter was mostly focused on the villains. Yeah, sorry about that-and I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to get this up. As I said before, I had already had this chapter written. Unfortunately, when I went back and reread it after planning out the next few chapters, it didn't seem to flow. So I rewrote it... and then rewrote it again. Bleh. Though all of that, though, I've noticed that my story is getting progressively darker. So here's the warning, then: there might be a few aspects of this thing that <em>are<em> a bit disturbing on some level. Especially Chronos-I'm not really sure at what point he went from the semi-nuts villain I had originally planned him out as to the sadistic, gleefully-murderous, demonic maniac he's become, but, hey-whatever makes the story work. As a result, there will probably be some emotional trauma for everyone else involved. Particularly our "unconscious stranger". Because, really, how going having your whole body and soul ripped apart molecule by molecule _not_ make you go a little crazy, even if just for a little bit? Sorry, I'm rambling. It's late. Meh. Oh, and then the whole thing went and rubbed off on M'gann-I've decided that I want to explore her character more. Based on Martian Manhunter's backstory and the hints dropped in "Downtime" (I think it was "Downtime"? Maybe? Whatever the episode was when she and Connor attended school for the first time...), I and firmly in the belief that she's not all happy-go-lucky 24/7. Crap. There I go again. I guess this is what I get for reading the online biographies of the Scarecrow and the Joker at midnight. **

**I'll stop now.**

**As always, reviews are love! Y'all are amazing for putting up with my antics, and I am so grateful for all of my readers/reviewers! :3 **


	5. The Passenger Seat

**Chapter Five**

The tense silence that followed Miss Martian's heated departure from the room seemed deafening, broken only by the weak-but-steady chirps emitting from the semi-stranger's heart monitor, and hung over the unsure Team's heads as the various members looked toward their leaders for guidance—some to Alqualad, appointed command of Young Justice; others to Batman, JLA commander and revered mentor of their most experienced comrade. It was Robin who focused solely on the latter, not even thinking to turn to his friend during such a time. Yes, the Boy Wonder was well aware that the Atlantean teen happened to be, physically, the oldest of the Junior Justice League, but his mission exposure was far less than he—or even the at-times-immature Kid Flash—possessed. From a practical standpoint, there was little steadiness to be taken from the actions of someone with less experience, regardless of his or her levelheadedness; and from a more personal point of view, there was no familial comfort to come from one with whom there was little interaction outside of what Robin, at times, considered to be work. Even in days past—before the formal formation of their Team—Kaldur had never been apt to join him, Wally, and Roy on their civvies-clad adventures, excuses of distance, training, or boarder regulations always conveniently cropping up in one form or another. It was never that the dark-skinned boy had rudely rejected their offers, per say; simply that he was contented with his somewhat-isolated life under the ocean's surface and felt no need to socialize with the Land-Dwellers. And so, Robin had never quite formed the brotherly bond that he had with his redheaded fellow protégés. Batman, on the other hand, was his rock; his guiding hand, his mentor, and—at times—his father. There was no doubting the Dark Knight's capability as both a steady leader in hours of turmoil and a ruthlessly rational crime fighter when the need presented itself.

Though he would neither admit nor show it outwardly, Robin needed such foundation, and he knew that the Caped Crusader understood that; because there was no denying the fact that the Boy Wonder was shaken by the chaotic events that had unfolded. Despite his years of training and fieldwork as a do-gooder vigilante and the crucial conditioning to keep hidden his most-precious secret identity—which had, in its most basic forms, included rigorous lessons on subduing and concealing one's emotions from others and remaining cool in times of pressure—he was, essentially, an impressionable young boy far too aged for someone of his short, youthful span on God's green earth. Even after so much time had come to pass, he still experienced the nightmares of a scarred, fear-filled child, and, though they had morphed over time, they still made real the one terror he prayed would never again become a reality: the loss of his family. M'gann's frantic reassurances and forceful, pressuring outbursts on the mysterious man's behalf did nothing to quell the images brought to the forefront of his mind by the demonic message sent on a silver platter like a banquet to the king for his sub-consciousness: _No more Batman._ The gruesome, sick way the threat had been delivered only seemed to serve as some twisted form of a poetic warning; in his eyes, Batman was indestructible—nothing could ever destroy the fearless protector of Gotham save the worst, most ghastly fate unimaginable. Something about the claim seemed to outweigh all other petty monitions issued by the maddened super-villains they had faced in the past. Somehow, this seemed all too real.

Still entrapped in the dazed stupor left hanging in M'gann's furious wake, the remaining five members and Batman retreated through the medical bay's exit, each of the youths seeming to move a beat slower as they attempted to prepare for whatever unexpected event should come following—because, as the night had proven, anything was possible. The Dark Knight, however, strode ahead, now feeling the urgency of his task beginning to set in; Miss Martian's resistance was... unexpected, to say the least, and not the smallest bit worrying. "It would be best if you all returned to your respective homes this evening as a precaution. The anesthetic should keep him subdued for the remainder of the night, but, until we are further aware of his abilities, it would be best to take extra precautionary measures. Red Tornado will remain as a secondary barrier should anything happen."

Robin hastened his pace to meet his mentor's side, glancing up worriedly. "But I thought you said he wasn't much of a threat...?"

"When he attacked—" the Boy Wonder nearly tripped, eyes widening; through the commotion that had transpired following the Dark Knight's arrival with the man, there had, as of yet, been almost no time for explanations regarding the tumultuous means of their arrival at the Mountain, and the suspected revelation only stacked further evidence against the stranger's case in Robin's mind, "—he seemed in a delusional, desperately panicked state, and his actions were justifiable in those regards met within the context of his cranial injuries," the curt not that followed his assertion paired with a loaded, conspiring side-look told him that there was more substance to the answer than the Batman was willing to share at the moment. _Later, Robin; there are listeners_. Indeed, one ninja-like glance behind the pair revealed the three pairs of prying ears straining—and one set super-powered enough so that such an effort was not necessary—to hear their conversation. But, then again, the original statement _had_ been directed toward the whole Team.

"But perhaps it would be best if one of us remained here to monitor his activities?" Aqualad called somewhat half-heartedly from behind, though making no move to approach the Dynamic Duo as the small group made their way toward the main living area. "Not to demean Red Tornado by any means, but..." Still, there was no sign of the green-skinned ginger.

"Besides," Wally piped, skipping between the silently scowling, arms-crossed pair: Artemis and Connor, "Where would Supey and Megs stay? I mean, Connor could come home with me like he did before we got this whole Cave thing sorted out way back when he, uh, joined, but I don't think my folks would appreciate having a, erm, _female-friend_ of mine staying under our roof." He received a raised eyebrow from Kaldur, devilish smirk from their resident archer, and growl from Connor.

"Why wouldn't they like M'gann?" he shot, immediately moving on the defensive as they walked.

Wally held up his hands in surrender, "It's not that they wouldn't welcome her or anything. It's just..." he trailed off, blushing slightly as he cleared his throat and looked to the side awkwardly. How to explain something like _this_ to a naive, sixteen-week-old super-powered genomorph who _happened_ to be innocently living with a teenage girl...? He doubted that the Cadmus had covered anything on the subject—other than the fundamentals, of course—during his _schooling_. "That's not exactly... You know..." he shrugged half-heartedly with a nervous chuckle. For all the flirting, ladies-man innuendo that seemed to roll off his tongue, discussing such topics in context with his _parents_ just felt... weird. "What would people think?"

"There is _nothing_ wrong with her," the clone growled, glaring.

Kaldur immediately made to stifle the growing argument once it became clear that Artemis would do no such thing, seeming to enjoy the speedster's discomfort. "While I am unfamiliar with most above-world customs, I believe that it is often considered improper for youths of the opposite gender to reside together when they do not share familial ties in some way," he offered, eliciting a confused look from the dark-haired Kryptonian.

"But M'gann and I live in the same place, and no one seems to think anything wrong with it." He stated flatly, though the question was implied. He raised an eyebrow at the Atlantean, who put a hand on his shoulder in an effort to explain the complications of humanity that even _he_ had yet to understand at times.

"I believe that those are extenuating circumstances due to your otherworldly nature," Aqualad supplied, smiling gently.

"Yeah," Artemis broke in, "It's not like you've ever told any of the kids at school that you guys stay together—which you shouldn't, by the way—but you've never had the chance to see their reactions. Just trust me on this one, though; some people are more concerned with reputation than others, and that's a _major_ factor." Wally mouthed a silent _thank you_, but she only rolled her eyes and ignored him. Yeah, she loved torturing the Kid, but she already had enough of a headache to last the evening; and, from the way this conversation was headed, things were only just beginning.

"By why would who a person reside with have any effect on his or her character?" Despite his enhanced intelligence, Superboy was having trouble grasping what, to most, was a simple concept.

"Because of what it implies."

"But what does it imply?" For someone so smart, the boy really could be quite simple. In the uncomfortable pause that followed Connor's question, the four teens could practically hear Robin giggling from ahead.

Wally cleared his throat, "Well, um, _anyway_, couldn't Megs stay with you, Artie?" Her companions' eyes all turned to her, and immediately the pressure had shifted from the redheaded speedster and landed on the blonde's shoulders.

"Actually, I'm not so sure how that would work out..." It had always been a bit of an unspoken rule that her personal life never, _ever_ blended with the parallel existence she led as a vigilante, much like the Team had learned that Robin's civilian identity was something simply not discussed. While most were skeptical of her supposed back story, it was accepted somewhat reluctantly and not pressed; period. The young archer was saved from any further explanations, though, when the Martian girl in question suddenly appeared upon their entering the living area.

"I will _not_ be going anywhere," she ground out with eyes only for Batman as she glared. "There is _nothing_ for me to worry about, so I'll be remaining _here_, at _home_."

Robin saw his mentor's eyes narrow through the horned cowl that always seemed to obscure a proper view of the man's face. Even so, he did not falter in his steps. "You may have no choice in the matter; I am sure that your uncle would agree with me on the fact that this is for your own safety, and it would be best for all parties if your temporary move was carried out as smoothly as possible." The Dark Knight practically hissed, his already-limited patience slowly wearing thin. The small group came to a pause in their journey as Batman stopped before the Zeta Beam controls and began entering various coordinates. "Superboy will remain at the West residence until further notice is made, and I will contact Martian Manhunter with the immediate change of plan. You," he turned toward the still-furious redheaded girl, "are to sleep at the Justice League Headquarters with your uncle for the time being." Any excitement the news may have elicited from the Team's other members under any other circumstances was severely subdued, as the weight of the situation finally began to dawn on the group of teenagers.

The statement was final, leaving no room for any further argument, and the quick business of gathering sparse living essentials for the two aliens was carried out in a tense silence over the next few minutes. Neither required much; only a few changes of clothes and sparse toiletry essentials for Superboy—the young clone carried out his daily grooming with quick, military-grade precision that included only the minimum by way of anything extra—and even less for M'gann, as her shape-shifting abilities allowed for an endless supply of various outfits and instantaneous cleaning. As their teammates prepared themselves, each of the other members—with the exception of Robin—contacted their respective mentors and parents via personal comm. links while Batman, true to his word, informed the elder Martian of the new developments over the main monitor. As neither hero was known for their extensive dialogue, the conversation was short and to the point, each trusting the other's judgment on the matter, and—overall—the entire situation regarding the planning of various living quarters was managed over the course of what could have been less than an hour despite the occasional but quickly subdued argument or stress-related outburst. One by one, Aqualad, Kid Flash, Artemis, Superboy, and Miss Martian were sent to locations at or near their temporary residences by way of Zeta Transfer, leaving an exhausted young bird and his father as the last heroes to exit the Cave. Batman carefully placed a gentle hand on Robin's shoulder, pulling him close by a miniscule amount undetectable to the naked human eye, and scanned the now-darkened cavern once more with his keen eyes. Only several keyboard clicks later, when the Mountain had been secured and Red Tornado uploaded with the information pertaining to his newest domestic mission—to watch over the mysterious, unconscious man—did the Dark Knight finally enter the coordinates of the Dynamic Duo's destination, and finally begin their journey home.

* * *

><p>M'gann, like the rest of her teammates, had never been to JLA headquarters before—the <em>real<em> top secret base floating miles above the planet earth's surface. She had heard the others talk about it from time to time, occasionally with the bitter undertone that so often colored their stories of when they had first met Superboy, but on more instances than not with shiny-eyed, wistful excitement. There were many versions of how it looked and what it contained, as all of their tales were either fantasized or interpreted from overheard conversations with or including their mentors. It seemed to be an unspoken rule among the Leaguers that the younger members not be told any solid information regarding the Station, whose even existence had only revealed itself thanks to a slip of the tongue on Green Arrow's part to a discontented then-Speedy. So, naturally, when the green-skinned girl had stepped into the Zeta Beam programmed to transfer her immediately to said aforementioned covert HQ, part of her mind was filled with the various imaginings of her fellow teenaged _partners_. The other part, of course, cared very little about the base itself—only that her warnings on the injustice of her _exile_ and the false accusations being placed against the perfectly innocent man lying immobile back in her _home_ were being ignored. On some level, she supposed such a division was due to her expansive subconscious, and attempted to focus her attention to the latter half—which she considered, at the moment, to be the more rational, logical side—trying all the while to ignore the frenzied, obnoxious internal voice—that, in any case, sounded disturbingly similar to Wally—exclaiming at how _cool_ this whole experience was. The instant she was flooded with the strange, tingling sensation that signaled a Zeta Transfer, she closed her eyes, almost, on some childish level, not wanting to spoil the surprise of it all; hoping to keep some innocence among the chaos of the last few hours that had turned her internal organs upside-down and inside-out. But, just as any toddler must grow old, the moment passed as soon as her Uncle's worried telepathic message breached her thoughts, signaling her arrival on the base.

_Is everything alright, M'gann?_ As was to be expected, most of the surrounding structure had a silvery, metallic sheen to its look, though the room she had found herself in—possibly the central transit area; the main room, of a kind—radiated a sort-of homey feel, indicating that the place was well-loved and oft-lived. The expansive area consisted of an open, two-level layout with what could have been floor-to-ceiling reinforced clear windows allowing a breathtaking view of the swirling, deadly, endless vortex of space that the Martian girl had once called her own—funny; when had Earth become her home? The businesslike aura created by the massive, blinking monitor screen, various scattered control panels and keyboards, and assorted sci-fi-esque 'captain's chairs' was broken by the odd plush sofa and mahogany coffee table, the natures of which seemed strangely out of place against the mysterious celestial backdrop. Despite the substantial lighting present in the room, there was no one around, she noticed; from what she had heard, most of the major heroes returned to their alter-identity's homes each night, as normal humans would, while the other, less adapted members—like the Martian Manhunter himself—remained somewhat of a permanent fixture about the Station.

_There are so many ways to answer that question, Uncle_, she replied with an audible sigh. Visibly, she sagged, sapped both emotionally, psychologically, and physically by what seemed like years—when, in actuality, the evening's events had only lasted a few hours—and it took her a moment to realize that she had reached a mental depth low enough so that she had ceased her constant hovering, her feet landing themselves lightly—albeit a bit unsteadily—on the cool metal flooring of the base. Immediately, she felt herself wishing for the strong, silent comfort of Superboy, who always seemed capable of giving her the support she needed in times of turmoil, no matter their size. While he was rather inept on the subject of verbal communication, his actions spoke for him, and that solid, physical presence was what she felt she needed. Around him, her mind was at peace, the frenzied jumble of humanoid thoughts and emotion muffled by the straightforward, almost-simple mental processes of the genomorph clone; she knew, though, that he would not be of much help in that respect when the uproar was coming from her own confused, dysfunctional thoughts. Nevertheless, it did not stop her from wishing. _Batman would not have called you to take me in if things had not taken a turn for what _he _felt was the worst, though. _

All at once, J'onn was mentally hit with an intense wave of bitter anger and sadness. _I do not believe I have been told the whole story_, he held out a viridian hand toward his niece with a gentle smile, _but know that you are always welcome with me regardless of whether or not Batman so declares. _Though the two had only become close over the past few months—as Martian Manhunter had barely been aware of the young girl's existence prior to her stowing away—the bond they had developed was strong and loving; closer than either had been to their respective families beforehand. With tired, sluggish movements, M'gann reached and took her uncle's offered support, beginning the slow journey on foot through the mazing, mechanical corridors of the Space Station.

_Thank you, Uncle_. As they wandered further into the headquarters' depths, M'gann's neck drifted closer to J'onn's arm, until, eventually, her head rested upon his forearm. The elder Martian did not seem to mind, only glancing down momentarily with a small smile gracing his lips as he readjusted their position, taking his hand from hers and draping it across the girl's slim shoulders. The halls were quiet, much as the main room had been, with only the rare hero passing in the halls. None, however, made any move to disturb the meandering pair, only shooting the occasional confused side-look or appropriately awed expression toward the Martians.

When what he viewed as an appropriate amount of time had passed to allow for his niece's calming down somewhat, J'onn ventured to speak once more, breaking the comfortable silence into which the two had fallen. _I am sensing great turmoil from you, child. _M'gann looked up at him as they rounded another corner, blushing. She had not realized that her emotions were that rampant on the telepathic level. _While I was informed of the core situation, I am well aware that Batman tends to overanalyze instances at times. It would be beneficial to... both of us if you relayed to me what has happened through your eyes. _Miss Martian nodded as her uncle gently pulled her to a stop before one of the many identical, automatic doors lining the Space Station's living quarter wings. There, regally engraved on the steel plate, were the words _Martian Manhunter_, displayed for all to see among doors labeled for similarly great heroes. _Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern_... all Founding Members were present, and, as sometimes happened, the young Martian was hit with a wave of pride—pride for what her uncle had become a part of, and pride for what she, too, was participating in. Though Earth was not her birth planet, it and all its small, primitive people had become her home and family, and she, like J'onn and the other heroes, would do whatever it so took to protect them. As if aware of her thoughts—though, perhaps, he was—Martian Manhunter ghosted his alien fingers across the nameplate. _Perhaps, one day, should you so choose, you will have a place here, as well. _The two Martian's shared a loaded, serene glance.

_Maybe, _M'gann sighed as the door slid open, _but my Team must trust me before that can ever happen_.

Her uncle paused before entering the dorm-like dwelling area, tilting his head to the side ever-so-slightly. _Trust is not an issue among your juvenile peers_, he gently guided his niece into the room ahead of him_. They put their lives in your hands with each mission you complete together. And it is a well known, though unfortunate, fact that Batman has faith in no one but himself... and perhaps Robin. His assessment of your abilities has no standing on how you see yourself, and such an opinion is directly linked to your skill as a telepath. Our emotions are what connect us to ourselves, child, and allow us to use the powered tapped in a way to further the greater good of this humanity. _

_ I understand, Uncle,_ Miss Martian sighed once more, listening to the hiss as the hydraulics slid shut the room's entrance, _but that doesn't make things any easier._

_ Sometimes learning to pick ourselves up after we have fallen is the hardest thing we may ever accomplish in our lives, but, in doing so, we become exponentially stronger. _Somehow, both knew that they were no longer discussing simply the recent developments at the Cave. _And when we believe ourselves strong, others will follow in suit. Take into account that what may seem to be reality is not necessarily concrete fact. Both you and I are aware of your abilities, and, though you may have much to learn, that is an essential aspect of maturing__—__not something of which to be ashamed. Failure is necessary for growth, but, at the same time, it should not define who you are. _M'gann could not help the strangely human tears that welled in her eyes, momentarily blurring her vision, and—before she could stop herself—her arms encircled J'onn. The elder Martian smiled sadly, gently stroking her hair as she silently cried. The situation called to mind an old earth saying that he had often heard spoken during his time on the planet. _Growing up is never easy, M'gann_. And, as he knew from experience, it seemed to be even harder for those of his species, due to their decelerated growth rate. What only lasted for a small fraction of any being's life was spanned over the course of many, many years for those born on their home planet, rather than the relatively short period of what was considered adolescence for mankind. After what could have been either minutes or hours—neither really paid much attention to the passage of time—M'gann's quiet sobs dissipated, leaving an air of peace in their wake.

_I'm sorry, Uncle, I do not mean to be a burden_, Miss Martian apologized softly into the elder Martian's uniform.

_Oh, M'gann, _he sighed, stroking her auburn locks—funny, he never would have expected her to choose such a color for her humanoid appearance—and gently guided her toward the spotless bed centering the Spartan room. _I have already informed you that I could never view you as such. _The pair sat as Martian Manhunter attempted to tuck the frazzled orange strands obscuring her face behind her ears with no avail. The young girl let out a soft giggle as his frustrating efforts, before running a hand through her hair and conquering a ribbon to tie it back as she did so. _Now, my dear child, show me what has caused such chaos in your life, and I will do my best to fully understand. _

With another nod, M'gann scooted back farther onto the bed, crossing her legs in a position that J'onn had seen many monks use for intensive meditation—briefly, he wondered which of her teammates had taught her the stance—before she began to float once more, entering her subconscious. Wanting to make his already distraught niece as comfortable with his presence as possible, Martian Manhunter adjusted himself similarly across from her, taking her hand once more in order to establish the psychic connection needed. Instantly, his mind was flooded with images and emotions—everything that the stranger had shown his niece up until the time of her arrival at the Space Station. Even he was stunned, hardly believing what appeared before his mind's eye, and watched in awed silence as scenes played themselves out with the same intensity as one would expect from something happening in real time.

* * *

><p>It was a well-known fact among both Leaguers and citizens alike that Batman, true to his loner stereotype, was paranoid to a point that some might considered obsessive. Whether it be his insistence that his civilian name never be mentioned in the presence of any JLA members excepting the Founding Seven or the strict orders he gave Robin to ensure that his eyes continually be covered to protect his identity, it always seemed that excessive lengths were gone to in efforts to stay in control of any given situation. The lack of a Zeta Tube in the Batcave was yet another example of such extreme caution—one which, at that moment, Dick found to be of the utmost annoyance. He was exhausted from the insanity-ridden, chaotic day, and wanted nothing more than to collapse into his bed for the evening. Thankfully, there was no school to attend the next day, as he and his fellow teens were all off for the week in celebration of the Thanksgiving season, and he practically drooled at the thought of staying unconscious for a span of time longer than four hours. Unfortunately, though, any sleep was to be delayed as, the moment he stepped under the glowing blue beams of the Transporter, he found himself back among the marble floors and cheesy couches of the Hall of Justice. He rubbed his temples tiredly as the AI announced his mentor's arrival behind him. "Why are we here?" the young boy asked as the Dark Knight moved to lock the machines for the night, effectively trapping their <em>prisoner<em> inside the Cave and creating a one-way coordinate loop only to be broken by the League's higher-ups.

"We have to pick up something before we head in for the night," came the gruff—though significantly softer than when in the presence of others—reply. Robin rolled his eyes and sighed, waiting impatiently for his mentor to finish. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he knew that there was more than one reason he wanted to place as much distance between himself—and, by extension, his father—and the strange man lying comatose at their base. Though sleep _was_, essentially, quite close to the list's top, however, there was one simple fact that seemed to stick out: the man? He made the young boy nervous—and not simply because of the creepy threat carved in his arm; though that was a contributing factor. For some unexplained reason, the young acrobat felt... _drawn_ to him, as though they shared some unspoken, sacred secret—an unknown, kindred bond on some metaphysical level—when, in reality, he had never even gone so far as to exchange any words with him. It was... odd, and not the least bit unnerving to someone trained by a man with limited trust. Going even beyond his own uneasiness, though, was the implication that the man might harm _his father_, whether intentionally or unintentionally. Yes, there were hoards of criminals prowling the streets every hour with the desire to see Batman dead, but rarely did an instance occur so close to the internal League structure. Never for a moment did he doubt Bruce judgment in his decision to bring the man to the Mountain, nor his ability to handle himself in any given situation. There was still, however, that lingering wariness and the unconscious fear that, once again, everything he cared about could be taken away once more in the blink of an eye. Granted, his family was a tad more durable this time around, but, in the end, everyone—each person on the planet, he could even go so far as to say—was mortal and had a weakness of some kind. There was no invulnerability, and, especially in their line of work, the limits of the human man were stretched to their extremes. It was a terrifying thought to think that, one day, Bruce's edges might snap and send him slipping over some inescapable ledge.

The pair quietly exited the Hall, entering into the familiar, warm grasp of night, and Robin breathed the crisp autumn air in an attempt to clear his head and return the usual alertness that he seemed to be absent from his senses at that moment. "You parked here, didn't you?" the young boy rolled his eyes as he scanned the dimly-lit evergreen grounds, searching for any one of his mentor's extensive collection of transportation methods.

"Landed would be a more accurate term," Batman's cape nearly-invisible swished in the blackness as a sudden burst of wind flowed from the opposite direction as their movement, and Robin unconsciously moved himself closer to his mentor in an attempt to shield himself from the whipping fabric. Accidently having face smacked with the thick, fire-proof fabric was something, as he had learned over the years, that hurt _much_ more than it should, considering it was often an occurrence that could be avoided. With the warmer proximity, Bruce found himself placing a black-gloved hand across his adoptive son's shoulders in an endeavor to further his son's efforts against the chilled air and unintentionally violent costume.

"You brought him in the Jet?" Robin was surprised, but only half-shrugged at the news. The man had obviously seemed fairly harmless to his mentor if that had been the case.

There was a hummed affirmative in response. "It should be this way," he steered them to the left, toward one of the many clearings partially hidden by a grove of evergreens. At the statement, Robin reached to fiddle with several buttons on his glove, and, suddenly, the kitten-purr of engines could be heard starting just ahead—only the highest-grade and stealthiest for Batman and his young partner.

At that, however, Bruce shot his ward a skeptical side-glance, to which he was met with a sheepish shrug. "I figure I'm going to going to learn how to fly it someday, so why not start getting familiar with the systems now?" Robin reached to awkwardly rub the back of his neck, chuckling nervously as his mentor subtly rolled his eyes behind the ever-present horned cowl.

"So you... hacked the controls..." Perhaps he had been too thorough with his training... Internally, though, he was smugly proud that the young boy had managed to do so without his noticing. A clever lad, indeed.

"I didn't _hack_ them, really... I just, you know, tweaked them a bit. Besides, I already know how to drive the Batmobile—how much different could the Jet be, really?"

"Legally, though, you are not supposed to utilize that knowledge except in cases of extreme emergency." Even the fearless Batman could admit that he had been unnerved at the thought of his little bird on the road, as any _normal_ parent would be; though whether it was because of the danger involved with driving among other unpredictable individuals on the road or the fact that it had become akin to a rite of passage as a sign of growing up in modern society, he would not say. "And, yes; no matter how brilliant you may think you are, piloting a vehicle in the air is no easy task."

"Ah, so you admit that I'm amazing..."

"I have never said otherwise," Batman couldn't help the smirk that crept across his features at his son's playful banter. They were so different, yet they meshed so well together.

When they finally boarded the plane, however, the atmosphere seemed to change. As soon as Robin's body hit the plush leather seating of the co-pilot console chair, he seemed so sag, and the pair lapsed into a somewhat-comfortable, if not slightly tense, silence as Bruce lifted the aircraft into the sky. They continued in quiet as scenery below passed at excessive speeds before disappearing under cloud cover to reveal a brightly-lit crescent shape afloat among the stars above them. Robin could not help but worry for his green-skinned teammate as he watched the sky pass by overhead. Batman could easily tell that something was troubling his little bird, but he had learned over the years that it was best not to press—not that he had ever been one to do so, in any case. He was a man of few words, and that seemed to work fine for both he and his son.

Dick, meanwhile, was battling with his own conscience. He had never hinted at the revelation he had entrusted Black Canary with during that first therapy session after the training mission gone awry to his mentor, yet holding the knowledge internally had begun to claw at him from the inside. The stranger's arrival and the disturbing message brought with him dredged up even more inner turmoil as he took to heart the warning: _No more Batman_. Should, God forbid, anything ever happen to the Dark Knight—which it would _not_, he assured himself—what would occur, really? Though he never intended—never had _any desire whatsoever_—to become the Vengeance and the Night, there remained the question of who would take on the mantle after Bruce's passing, or even if anyone would at all. Perhaps the Batman legend would die with him... but, no, such an epic would never _really_ fade; like tribal folk tales passed down through generations of villagers, the Batman would carry on with all that he had been a part of; the Justice League, the ever-clearing Gotham Police Department, and the dozens—if not hundreds—of criminals kept off the city's streets nightly. The morbid route his thoughts had taken brought him to a mental crossroads bearing the one question he had avoided: _If anything happened to Bruce, what would become of me?_

Suddenly, he felt both smaller and much, much older than his relatively young thirteen years of age, and he could not stop the quiet inquiry from slipping past his lips, "You won't ever leave me, right, Bruce?" he was thankful for the night's blackness that hid his face from his mentor.

Though he had been asked that same question many times when the young acrobat had come to live at Wayne Manor all those years ago, this time seemed somewhat different. It had been a while since any insecurity or abandonment fear had been uttered, but the scarred older man knew that his son still had nightmares on the occasional stormy night. It was not uncommon—even he experienced them, and, thus, rightly understood the fear and pain that accompanied the memories that were always dredged up by night terrors. "You know that I will always do everything in my power to keep you safe, Dick," he replied softly, the weight of the world seeming light as he shouldered the burden of being a father—but ever hardship was worth its weight twenty-fold, and he solemnly swore by every word he uttered.

"Thanks, Bruce." It was a heavily loaded response that held more, understood meaning that could ever be comprehended by anyone other than the man by whom the young boy sat. _I love you_.

"There is nothing to thank me for." _I love you, too._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Has anyone else noticed that my chapters are getting progressively longer? Yeah, heh, that wasn't really my intention, but oh well. (: Anyway, I hope you liked that little bit of Martian fluff up there-I feel like there just isn't enough about M'gann and her uncle out there... Oh, and Bats fluff! (So much fluff? What's happening? <em>I don't even know who you are any more<em>. O_o) Ahem... Well-it was brought to my attention that this is some excessive amount of exposition, and I promise that the action is going to pick back up soon. *~*SPOILER ALERT*~* Our mysterious stranger is going to wake up next chapter, so keep your eyes peeled for le CONFLICT. And th****is is just a quick little side-note, 'cause I really don't like to complain (complaining makes me feel bad, since y'all are all so great and everything...), but last chapter had the highest word count yet (probably excepting this chapter, though) but it received the least amount of reviews. Sadness... Your reviews and support are what keep me writing, and, if I don't get a lot of feedback, I'll naturally assume that no one is really interested in my story and stop progress. Which is just as unfun for me as it might be for some of y'all. **

**As always, love to my wonderful reviewers/favers/alerters~ Y'all are spectacular and amazing, and y'all keep me motivated with my writing. :3**


	6. Sinking Friendships

**Chapter Six**

As the Batmobile's neon-bright, interior clock clicked just past three in the morning, all was silent save the sleek car's sophisticated purring through the blackened night. To any sparse passerby that happened to be moseying along the winding, abandoned back road framed on either side by lush, dark greens, it would seem as though the early morning was still and undisturbed; the vehicle employed no overly-bright headlights to guide its way—for stealth purposes, of course—and the feline-volumed engine gave no indication of its passing from afar. Even so, the car's driver—and singularly alert passenger—knew the worn path well enough to exempt himself from such otherwise-necessary measures, having become familiar with every curve, bump, and skid across the pavement over past years.

The dark-clad man gripping the wheel spared a glance to his right, a soft, seldom-seen smile gracing his lips as he laid eyes on the young, sleeping companion with whom he traveled. Not wanting to wake the boy with his voice, Bruce clicked one of the many buttons framing the vehicle's dashboard; over the next several seconds, an ancient grandfather clock housing in the study of his expansive mansion would chime a thundering thirteen times, signaling its impending arrival to the aging butler present within.

Several miles on, the winding highway began to smooth itself out as the foliage surrounding it thickened, and soon the smooth blacktop roughened to a more well-worn path. Still, Dick—desensitized to the journey—did not awaken. The jerks and curves gradually became steeper and sharper—the kind that would deter any driver less than the Dark Knight, himself, and a select few thrill seekers that happened to pass the way infrequently—until there came a turn that, to the untrained eye, seemed to be at an almost forty-five degree angle; during which point, of course, the Batmobile did not turn. Instead, the impressive vehicle sped directly into the awaiting forest—which promptly disappeared and reappeared faster than the blink of a human eye—and down a secret, hidden metal ramp leading directly to the Batcave's back entrance steel doors. Once the car had been confirmed by the security interface, the metallic monstrosities slid open with surprising mechanical ease to reveal the black caverns, themselves. To any onlooker, it was truly a sight to behold, but to those that witness the all-too-often occurrence, it simply meant another successful day marked by the return home _alive_.

The moment the vehicle pulled to a stop as the door hissed shut behind it, Robin began to awaken. Having been trained by Batman to be alert in almost every situation and prepared for any emergency, it was only natural that the young barely-teenager be a light sleeper. He groaned slightly, pulling himself upward in his seat as Batman opened the driver's side door and stepped onto the stone floor, stretching his legs. Rapidly blinking in an attempt to clear the sleep from his vision, Dick reached up and peeled the domino mask from his face, rubbing his eyes as he did so. Sluggishly, he groped for the door handle, finally managing to swing the passenger side open and practically stumble out of the car just as Alfred Pennyworth emerged from the darkened elevator shaft doors at the top of a set of stairs leading to the Wayne Manor's secret entrance. "Masters Bruce, Dick," the white-mustachioed man greeted, nodding to each of his charges in turn as he approached. "I trust your evenings went well. Am I to retrieve medical supplies?" Even in the dim light of the Cave, Alfred had learned over the year to spot a bloodstain from miles away, and he eyes the suspicious, drying stains smattered across Bruce's glove and sleeve.

"No, thank you, Alfred," he responded, slipping off his cowl even as the words left his lips and running a hand through his black locks. Bruce glanced toward his now-somewhat-stabilized son, before approaching the man monitor system expanding across a large crevice in the cavern walls.

"Not yours, then, sir?"

"Not mine." The unmasked vigilante nodded absently, already having moved on to the next task at hand as he pulled the vials of their mystery man's blood from his utility belt. By then, Dick had regained enough of his faculties to be partially aware of his surroundings—enough so that he began trudging toward the stairway without much more than a grunt of exhaustion.

"And your Jet, sir?" Alfred moved to accompany the boy, though still keeping an eye on the elder man as he did so.

"Safe at the hanger," Bruce replied as he pressed several sequencing keys on the massive, curving control panel, referring to the camouflaged structure hidden in Gotham's surrounding woods where the Batman's various aircraft and non-Cave-accessible means of transportation were stored. "Would you help Dick to bed, Alfred? Make sure he makes it all the way to his bed?" He paused for a moment, sending a fleeting look to the pair. The object of conversation did not seem to notice that he was being talked about, and Bruce was tempted to question whether or not the young boy had fallen to dreams once more and was simply sleepwalking. "It's been a long evening, and he deserves a good rest."

"Of course, sir." Alfred had already placed a steadying arm across his surrogate grandson's shoulders and was keeping him on track toward the doorway. "I shall return in a moment." Bruce heard the snap as the entrance slicked closed behind them, leaving him alone to work with the echoing squeaks of several stray bats not gallivanting about the black sky during those early morning hours sounding around him. Too-quickly, he prepared a sample and placed it in the analyzing machine for processing—what good was a detective without the proper forensics equipment, after all—before collapsing in the plush, high-backed control chair. A system bar appeared at the bottom corner of the main screen, showing that he had a bit to wait before any more progress could be made, and the young man ran worn hands tiredly over his quickly-aging face. He was tired; so, so tired.

Every day, he fought a battle that would never be won, and yet he continued onward toward the unreachable goal in spite of the toll it was taking on him. He had seen things... done things that no man should ever have to do, and brought a somewhat-innocent—because, after witnessing such a tragedy, even the purest of children slightly lose themselves—little boy down in doing so. But, then again, there would never be any stopping a kid so stubborn. Bruce smirked inwardly—to anyone who did not know their back stories, he and Dick might seem related: like a true father and son. He sighed, adjusting his position so that there was less of a strain on his back. Any lesser man would be at the prime of his life at this vibrant age of thirty-two, but the years of countless abuse his body had endured time and time again were beginning to wear him down. It only served as a further reminder of his own mortality—a forbidden topic for someone in his line of work, where there was an almost guarantee that he would not meet his end by old age.

Yes, there were those that managed to get out of the game before the inevitable struck—a certain Jay Garrick came to mind—but they were the lucky ones, stepping aside so that their children could step into the spotlight of danger left empty in their place. But, then again, was there ever really an end? Even then, there was the constant, looming fear that they would go through the one thing that no parent should ever have to: outliving their offspring. It was a father's job to protect his son, and yet Bruce knew that there was only so much he could do. One day, Dick would leave, just as every bird must fly from the nest when they are of age. It was inevitable, and yet the question loomed: what would become of him then?

It had never been Bruce's intention to pass on his mantle—that was a burden too heavy... never something with which he had ever had any desire to drag his son down; or any man, for that matter. While he had failed to shield the boy from the violent way of life that he was driven to pursue, he could still push him to be his own man. He recognized that, at times, he could be harsh, but it was all out of love and means to a better end. He hoped that Dick realized that.

Bruce glanced back up at the screen and groaned when he saw that the blinking red rectangle had shifted less than a centimeter. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," He was not in the mood for time to drag on endlessly while he sat by and watched. With those thoughts racing through mind, the need for a distraction became overpowering, and he slowly unfolded himself from the chair even as his body protested the movement. He did not look back as he ascended toward the hidden elevator, and closed his eyes as the metal doors slid shut behind him, resting his head against the cool wall for a moment. For the ten second ride upward into his study, he was completely, utterly alone, and he let his guard drop, the facade of hard toughness fading for those moments before he regained his composure once more just as his movement came to a stop. It had not been very long since Alfred and Dick had left... perhaps he still had enough time to bid his son goodnight. Now with a definitive goal in hand, Bruce made his way through the halls of his mansion and up the winding back stairs leading toward the upper living quarters in the West Wing. Alfred would lecture him if he tracked mud across the _main _corridors, and it was in his best interest to remain on the man's good side.

Soon, he rounded the corner toward where his and Dick's rooms were located, only to see the door to his son's standing open, leaving Alfred's dress-suit-clad back to obscure the view of any curious—and nonexistent—passerby that happened to posses the urge to peek inside the area. Upon hearing his charge's muffled footsteps approach, the old butler tilted his head to give Bruce a look, demanding silently in that politely harsh way only Englishmen can that he _be quiet_. The black-haired man nodded, noticing as he advanced that Alfred's gloved hand was already placed firmly on the ancient brass doorknob, preparing to close the bedroom off for the night. A little disappointed that he had missed his opportunity, Bruce paused in his steps alongside Alfred, who he now noticed had Dick's brightly-colored vigilante uniform folded and neatly draped over one arm. Instead of closing the door immediately, however, the butler-turned-family-member simply raised an eyebrow at the dark-haired man and waited for him to enter. Taking the hint, Bruce made his way softly to Dick's bedside, taking care to avoid the chaos strewn about the floor in an almost methodic way. For every way the young, hyper acrobat acted, it could never be said that there wasn't a method to his madness.

The room itself was massive, just as every other room in the expansive, ancient mansion that the Wayne family called home. Even in the darkness brought upon by the early-morning blackness shining through the cathedral windows lining one wall, Bruce could see—knew—that the young boy—one so used to living in a small, cramped Circus trailer—had done his best to adapt, trying his best over the years to make the space his own. The Dark Knight could not help but smile softly, proud of his son for enduring everything they both had in life, and—in a way—come out stronger than his mentor. Whereas Bruce had reacted to the tragedy of his parents' death with violence, vengeance, anger, and a darkly passionate _need_ to wipe scum like Joe Chill and villains exponentially worse off the streets, Dick focused his pain and hurt toward the cause of preventing another child from suffering the same agony that they had. He was proud of the work they did, and optimistically honed in on the positive changes—however indiscernible they might have been—that the Dynamic Duo brought to society, rather than dwelling in the bottomless pit of crime that infested the world as his adoptive father had come to. Returning his thought process to the task at hand, Bruce let his gaze wander once more over the living area.

It was, essentially, every young boy's paradise—though Bruce was careful never to spoil his son without reason or consequence, making sure that nothing either of them had was taken for granted. Mounted on the far wall of the first area, in front of several comfy-looking bean-bag chairs, was a flat-screen TV, accompanying gaming systems and media discs scattered half-hazardly on an ornate shelf set underneath, where a small, dorm-sized refrigerator housed sodas and snacks necessary for every active, growing young man. A simple, wide door-less frame acted as somewhat of a barrier between the next, larger section, housing a king-sized, four-poster bed—across which a certain black-haired thirteen-year-old was currently sprawled, utilizing the space as much as was humanly possible for someone of his relatively small stature—and an intricate mahogany wardrobe filled to the brim with Gotham Academy uniforms and civilian clothes—though the tell-tale sweatshirts were pushed to the back rows for paranoia's sake.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves outlined another wall, continuing from the first room, and there was an antique desk strewn with school papers and texts next to an all-important laptop of the highest caliber. Bits and pieces of wires, tools, and various gadgets and appliances that had fallen prey to Dick's curious, genius mind poked out of desk drawers and formed little stacks where they had been pushed aside to make way for homework. Practically plastered across every wall not otherwise occupied, though, were posters, schematic doodles and absurdly long math equations worked out in smudged #2 pencil across graph paper, photographs, and other hangable knick-knacks that somehow seemed to appear from time to time. The most notable decoration in the rooms, though, was a framed, life-sized, colorful advertisement depicting the amazing Flying Graysons and their death-defying acrobatics act, across the back of which—usually hidden though barely visible through the thick paper in correct lighting—various members of the Haley's Circus family had written messages to their youngest and most beloved little performer. It had been a sad, yet loving and hopeful farewell gift upon Dick's moving into the Wayne household.

Upon approaching his exhausted son, Bruce's normally harsh, uptight demeanor softened, and even his tired shoulders seemed to relax. In sleep, Dick's many facades melted away into the graceful innocence of any young boy, regardless of background. It was a contented state that the elder man knew that he would never again be able to reach, even in the supposed-bliss of unconsciousness, but simply knowing that the one person who meant more than the world to him experienced such peace was enough to serve a similar purpose. Dick stirred briefly as the old house creaked in response to Alfred's departure from the main entranceway, blinking blearily through the dark and focusing only halfway on the familiar figure standing above him. "Bruce?" he mumbled, words slurred by his inconvenient state of semi-consciousness.

"Go back to sleep, Dick," he reached down to run a hand through his son's ruffled midnight locks, only to stop as he realized the black, blood-covered gloves were still slipped over his hands. Briefly, he mused that there was probably a bit of symbolism in that—the barrier of his stained alter-ego between him and those he loved preventing him from connecting fully with unhardened incorruption by darkness. "It's been a long day for both of us. Go back to sleep."

"You're goin' to bed, too, right?" even as he said the words, Dick was fading back into the land of dreams. "You need rest more than I do... You're always awake..." Bruce wasn't given the chance to answer as his breathing evened back out.

"Goodnight, Dick," he smiled, nudging the bedspread closer around his son as best he could without tainting the fabric, and silently retreated back to his Cave. No, there would be no slumber for him tonight. There was too much work to be done—too big a mystery to be solved.

When he returned to the control seat, he noticed with some gratitude toward the universe that the sample had made considerable progress in his absence, though he still had a bit to wait before the analysis's completion. For no other reason than want of something to keep his mind occupied, the Dark Knight settled in to check up on both Blackgate Penitentiary and Arkham Asylum, though he knew there had been no new developments—negative or otherwise—regarding either. Sure enough, everything was in order, leaving the streets free of the more psychotic members of society. He briefly considered contacting Batgirl, with whom he had entrusted patrol earlier in the evening, knowing that he would likely not return to the city in time for night's fall, but thought better of it knowing that the high-schooler was likely already tucked asleep, just as Dick was.

Eventually, after several moments of restless contemplation, he rose, made his way toward the elongated work table covered with an assortment of tools and tech, and began the mind-numbing task of restocking his utility belt. Thankfully, the tedious process was interrupted halfway through by an obnoxious alarm, signaling the DNA analysis's completion. He returned to the computer and tapped a few keys, beginning what was sure to be the endless process of running the sample through the systems in search of a match. With so much information with which to compare it, hours could pass before any definitive answer was found—if one was, that is. After all, there was no guarantee that the man was on any sort of record, period. Still, it was a start.

Utility belt forgotten—or ignored; he was too tired to decide which seemed like a better option—Bruce sank down into his control seat as the preparation bar began loading, and resigned himself to a task that he had been putting off: informing Clark of the situation. It was only a matter of time before Superman discovered that a member of the Team he was less inclined to fondness toward was staying the night at the League's base of operations, and Bruce was _not_ in the mood for another lecture about keeping him in the know.

Despite being a recognized second-in-command under Bruce, Superman took his role a bit too seriously, and the strain put on their almost brotherly—though neither would ever admit to it—relationship by Superboy's sudden and controversial appearance was only serving to aggravate their already antagonistic attitude toward one another even more. Collapsing the comparison search to one of the smaller screens just as profiles began flashing at Flash-esque speeds, Batman linked to the Kryptonian's League communicator, knowing that—thanks to his alien biology—Clark needed less sleep than a normal human being, and, thus, would most likely be awake; glancing at the small digital clock blinking on another, upper panel—a strangely normal aspect that Dick had programmed after lamenting for days that there was no way to tell time in the Cave—he saw that it was just past four AM. After a moment, the black-haired journalist appeared on the massive screen, back-dropped against the dim outline of what Batman knew to be a small study in the man's Metropolis apartment. He was tense, already in costume and prepared for either a mission or bad news, but visibly relaxed when he saw his friend's exposed face rather than cowl—before assuming the worst. Bruce looked tired—in more ways than one.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, keeping his voice low, and Bruce offhandedly wondered if Lois was staying the night.

"There have been—" Bruce was cut off by another alert, signaling that a match had been found for the blood sample, and he whipped his gaze down toward the screen in a rare display of surprise—he had genuinely not expected any results so soon into the hunt. What he saw, however, sent him reeling, and all thoughts of the concerned man magnified on his monitor disappeared. "Impossible..."

"Bruce? Bruce, what's going on?" the younger man, much to Clark's distress, had gone pale, and did not seem to hear him. While it was not often Bruce displayed emotion to those he considered to be outsiders, it was even more infrequent—nearly never—that the man was rendered stunned to the point of speechlessness.

A loud crash resounded behind Bruce, followed by a wavering but steady, "Master Bruce?" Alfred, who had returned to the cave bearing what he knew from experience to be much-needed coffee and a small sandwich—the Wayne heir had no doubt skipped dinner again, as usual—had dropped the tray he had been carrying upon seeing the results magnify themselves on the main screen next to Clark's video feed.

The noise seemed to snap the Dark Knight back to reality, and he absently scrubbed his face with his still-gloved hands, wincing slightly at the rough material, sitting back in the chair. "No... no, not impossible." Immediately, every possible explanation ran through his brilliant mind, and be quickly stood to process another blood sample as the most likely scenario popped itself to the forefront of his thoughts.

"Seriously, Bruce—what happened? Look at me—_what happened_?" Just as Superman was contemplating an early-morning flight to Gotham—thoroughly annoyed and with growing anxiety at being ignored—the old butler, having managed to scoop the broken bits of china back onto his platter, stepped forward with the best explanation he could offer at the moment. He knew the base details of the situation regarding the Batsuit-clad stranger, and had been made somewhat aware of the evening's happenings over video messaging during the Dynamic Duo's flight back to the city, but he knew that he did not quite grasp the _true_ importance of the name displayed in bold above a smiling picture, despite recognizing that this was in some way monumental.

"It seems our mysterious guest now has a name."

* * *

><p><em>The air was too cold<em>_—__too damp__—__and the wind was too chilled. It just seemed... wrong, somehow, though he couldn't place it. The world felt sick as he sprinted through the back alleys of a city so familiar, yet all too foreign. _Come now, little bird, I don't want to hurt you. I just want to talk._ There was a laugh, resonating closer with every pounding step he took, the slaps as his feet hit the puddled pavement echoing through the eerily silent night. There was no sound of tailing footsteps__—__no physical indication that he was being followed__—__but he knew. He _knew, _even though he did not understand how. _You saw him, didn't you? You watched him bleed out. What did he say little bird? What did he _ask you_? _His throat burned, his lungs constricted, and his sides heaved as he rounded a corner, sliding to a pained stop for less than a second. He had to keep moving. He had to stay strong and keep moving. There was someone he had to find__—__to warn__—__but his brain was muddled and he couldn't remember who he was supposed to tell. _Because I know what he said. It's an honest question, isn't it? A bit fun to think of the answer. I've been playing with it, you know. A bit messy, that—but all the chaos just adds to the fun of it. _Suddenly, a scream shattered the night, and he never had the chance to realize that it erupted from his own body. _What would the world be like without Batman?

Gasping, Dick willed his eyes open with a force that nearly hurt as he trashed out at the darkness. Something was holding him back—pinning him down—he _had _to get away. A choked sound that could have been halfway between a cry for help and a sob escaped him, but suddenly—for a split second—he was falling, only to freeze when the ground rushed up to smack him mercilessly across the side of his head. Blinking blearily as his vision cleared through the fog of sleep, panic, and pain, he tried in vain to reign in his heart rate, struggling to breathe. He had been trained by the goddamn _Batman_, for Christ's sake—and the number one rule that had been drilled into his head from the earliest of ages was _never_, on any occasion, was it alright to panic. Panicking got you killed.

Belatedly, though, the young boy realized that he was _not_ trapped in some madman's lair, subdued with barbed wire, but on his bedroom floor, tangled in his sheets where he had fallen from the bed. Suddenly, he felt very stupid—stupid, but still a little unnerved. It had been quite some time since he had experienced nightmares—and never one like _that_—but he was not keen on returning to sleep. None of the events that had led him from the Batmobile to his pajamas were particularly un-fuzzy and at the forefront of his mind, but he vaguely remembered Alfred bringing him up and helping him out of his uniform. For a moment, his brain wanted him to believe that Bruce had been there, but the memory was fleeting and Dick was only halfway positive that it had not been a figment of his imagination—his subconscious wanting a father to comfort him.

With a groan, he shimmied out of the cocoon that had somehow managed to form itself around him—master escape artist, and all that—before poking his head over the side of his now-bare bed. Part of him just wanted to stay on the floor and go back to sleep, but he knew that his muscles would be infinitely sore for the next several days if he gave in. He settled instead for simply resting his chin on the cool mattress, trying to gain the strength and will to heave himself up. When he finally did, though, and managed to flop bouncily on his back, the young acrobat quickly realized that there was no way he would be able to return to sleep after such an ordeal.

No matter how tired he was, his thoughts refused to drift much away from that same, recurring line that seemed to pop up everywhere he looked—and, even when they did, his mind's focus honed in on the eerily similar message delivered by their prisoner back at Mount Justice and the likely inspiration for his night terror. Stupid subconscious. With a frustrated huff, he glanced at the clock—just for kicks to see how much sleep he had _actually_ managed to deposit into the bank—and practically whined when the time smirked back at him. Four-thirty-nine AM. Stupid universe. (It seemed that everything this morning had decided to be stupid, and he mentally declared it to be the Word of the Day out of spite.) Bored, grumpy, and in need of some kind of company to keep away his dreams, Dick rolled out of bed once more—purposefully, this time—and paused for a moment as his room righted itself. It was an almost guarantee that Bruce was still awake at this hour, and, despite knowing that it would probably bother the older man to no end—not because of the fact that he was there, but that he was not getting the rest both knew he needed—he decided to join his father down in the Batcave.

Not bothering to put on slippers—shoes were stupid—he made his way out the door and padded silently through the carpeted halls of his home, eventually making his way to the main, winding wooden staircase that served as a sort-of centerpiece for the grand hall. Briefly, he entertained the idea of sliding down the railing—it wouldn't be the first time he had done it, nor the last—but decided that he was still a bit too out of it to be pulling stunts like that this early in the morning. It would suck for everyone if he broke something—whether it be himself or any of the numerous fragile items awaiting their doom below.

He left the destruction for another day—preferably one where Wally was involved...somehow he always managed to cause the most damage of anyone when their collective madness was involved—and continued on until he made it to Bruce's massive study. Jumping over one of the several lavish couches—just because he wasn't going to risk his health one way didn't mean he couldn't get his blood flowing _somehow_—he hopped toward the old grandfather clock, clambering up the shelves of one of the many adjoining bookcases in order to reach its face, before reaching to twist the two spindly metal hands toward ten-forty-seven—the exact time his adoptive grandparents were murdered. Just as it always did, the whirring of mechanisms sounded in the quiet of the office, and the wooden monument slid back and to the side, revealing a small elevator. Dick deftly twisted inside, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a newfound energy as he descended into the caverns below. Stupid adrenaline—there was no way he was getting back to sleep, now.

Several seconds and a desire to bring up the topic of installing speakers and a smooth jazz loop with Bruce later, the slick metal doors were sliding open to reveal the dimly-lit staircase leading down into the depths of his father's secret hideout. Over the railing, he could clearly make out the ever-present glow from the Batcave's many monitors, and Dick slowed his footsteps when he realized that his Uncle Clark's frowning face was taking up half of the main screen. It wouldn't do to interrupt if they were discussing something serious, and... was that _his_ picture up there next to the video feed? Curious, he crept downwards, careful not to make a sound. Really, though, if the three men—Alfred was there, too, he now realized—had not heard the elevator arrive, they were more than likely too occupied to notice him; it was, of course, better to be safe than sorry, though. Dick may have been a ninja, but his father was, for all intents and purposes, a ninja _master_.

Batman was talking, and the young acrobat, upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, slipped into the shadows and settled in to listen. "...them tomorrow morning back at Mount Justice. He's still there, and at this point the situation has moved so close to home that there is no way to keep them out of this."

"And whose fault is that?" Clark shot, obviously annoyed by something. It was an attitude he had only recently developed after discovering Superboy's existence, and, with the mention of the Mountain, it was safe to assume that the two men were discussing the Team.

"I recognize that it was not the best decision on my part to bring him there, but it was designed as a training exercise. There was no way I could have foreseen these developments." Bruce's retort was quick, and no doubt accompanied by a patent-pending Bat-glare.

Alfred intervened before any more of an argument could spring up between the two. "Regardless of blame, the pressing matter remains as to _how_ you plan on breaking this... somewhat disturbing news to your partners."

Superman's anger flared. "He is _not_ my—"

"I was not referring to _you_, Mister Kent." Alfred interrupted, and Dick had to bite back a chuckle. There were very few people who could get away with telling off Superman, and his grandfather-figure was one of them. Returning his focus to the matter at hand, though, the young boy continued to puzzle over the fact that his profile was still shining proud right above the blinking red letters that proclaimed _Match Found_ in bold print. Match found? From what? The only thing—which he knew of, anyway—Bruce had planned to test that night had been the samples gathered from the injured man back at their base. There were no other ongoing cases that the Batman and Robin were working on, and nothing in the League that would involve him. There was no way that—

"Simple: I'll tell them the truth. They are a strong group of teenagers, and I know they _will _be able to handle it." Dick was almost flattered by his praise of their Team, and, had he not been so distracted as things slowly began to come together in his mind he might have smiled in the darkness.

"But what about Dick? Think the effect this will have on him."

"I _have_, and I see no other way around this. He is a brilliant young boy, and we will work through whatever problems this uproots in the long run. For now, things have escalated to an already irreversible point as they are, and the best option we have is to move forward" he paused, "Besides, Clark, I don't think you have much by way of authority on giving _me_ advice about _my son_." The glares returned.

"That... _kid_ is _not_ my son, Bruce, and you _know that_. And this situation is completely different—this is _not _just another mission."

"I never said it was—this is something much, much bigger than anything you will be able to understand. Not until you take your responsibilities and _deal_ _with them_. He is my _child_, Clark—don't you dare _ever_ assume that I could write this off as anything less than top priority."

Alfred, once again, intervened. "Arguing will achieve nothing, as I have already established. Please rein your focus away from your respective familial issues and present it to the task at hand. Quite frankly, I am a bit shocked at both of you—an aged version of Master Richard appears in our world and all you both have done for the past five minutes is bicker about responsibilities. No one questioned your authority on the subject, Master Bruce, and, Master Clark? Kindly lower your voice. I am quite sure that you have most likely awoken anyone else in your apartment with all the noise you both are making."

Dick stopped listening after the man's third sentence, physically taking a step back as though slapped by the realization. _No, no... that wasn't possible... that meant... that meant that..._ In forgetting that he was backed up against the stairwell's edge, though, the young boy managed to hit his head against the metal railing, sending an echo-y, ringing _clang_ to resonate throughout the Cave. He did not even register the pain as three pairs of eyes focused on him.

Stupid universe.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: You guys need to stop listening to me. Really. I'm sorry. ): I can plan and plan and plan, but, in the end, that obnoxious wordcount glaring at me from the bottom of the page is what ultimately decide what makes it into each chapter. So, for, like, the third time in this story, I have to split this chapter up into two. (But he wakes up in the next chapter! I swear! It's actually written, so I can't let you guys down again!) Anyway-Yay for mystery-man's identity finally being revealed! (even though you all already knew). I have to say, though, that this chapter was awful to write, and I hate it, and I'm sorry. The whole second scene? Complete rubbish. I don't even know where that came from. I'll probably pop back in a bit later and tweak some things (as I seem to be wont to do), but it's been so long since I posted a chapter that I figured I might as well get this up here now. Don't kill me... please... pitchforks and torches and mobs are scary, and no way to bring in the new year...<strong>

**As always, reviews are love. Thank you so much to everyone who has read/alterted/favorited/reviewed this story so far~ your support keeps me writing! :insert heart here:**


	7. Raise Your Weapons

**Chapter Seven:**

The memories _hurt_. They _burned_ her heart and her mind, just as if they were her own. She felt the pain, the love, the heartbreak, the joy, the agony... it tingled through her body—through her _soul_—not losing any of its potency even with her second pass. Every tragic flash cut her deeply, while each blurred smile mended the wounds. It was all so much... and it held _more _than she had ever before experienced in her too-long, too-pain-filled existence. More emotion, more passion, more _life_. And it confused her, saddened her, excited her, made her yearn simply to _understand_ _why_. He was so familiar—so similar—and yet he _wasn't the same_. As the broken, frayed threads of some other world wove themselves together before her eyes, she stared, stricken, not understanding as tears trailed their way, unbidden, down her viridian cheeks.

_Why, Uncle? What do I _do_? How can I even... It's really him, isn't it? It's really Robin? _Her telepathic questions were muddled by her inner turmoil, no one clear thought permeating the other Martian's advanced psyche. The images flowing between them faded, leaving the two foreigners alone in the suddenly too-dark, too-quiet metal-plated room.

_Only he can answer that, M'gann, and__—__even then__—__we may not ever know the truth. _Martian Manhunter placed a hand on his young niece's trembling shoulder, and immediately she flew to him, wrapping her small arms around his torso and catching the elder being off-guard. Though he had learned to integrate himself within human society, such open, physical displays of affection were rarely felt, and, as his race was based on a largely a-physical, other-level plane of existence, similar actions were quite unheard-of back on their home planet. Miss Martian buried her dampened face in J'onn's bio-generated costume, sure of nothing else in that moment save the fact that she _needed comfort_.

_But _what do I do_? That doesn't help... I promised I wouldn't tell, Uncle, but no one trusts him... His friends are afraid, and Batman treats him just like any other criminal._ Her grip tightened, and J'onn gently slid his arms over her thin back, pulling her closer out of instinct. All in all, they made for a very... _human_ picture likened to a father comforting his daughter. Yes, their relationship had been complicated from the beginning, but there were moments in time—like—that saw past those difficulties and brought them together in the most earthen sense of the word... _family_.

_There is nothing else that _can_ be done, _he sighed internally, _you have kept your word, and attempted as best you could under the circumstances given to protect his identity. From here, it is his choice to decide where this situation will lead. _M'gann nodded softly into his chest, sniffling through the dainty sobs echoing through the empty bed chamber. Glancing at the little mechanical clock blinking resolutely on J'onn's generic night table—a formality present only to give the room some sense of human normalcy—he saw that several hours had passed since the pair had arrived. It was nearly morning on the American surface world, and, soon, the situation would move forward with the sun, unstoppable. Martian Manhunter could only hope that the outcome of any further developments was positive, knowing all the while that events unfolding would prove worse before they resolved themselves. Absently, he began gently stroking M'gann's conjured ginger locks in an attempt to soothe her, unsure of where the action came from but receiving no resistance in return. Slowly, the young girl quieted, and it took several moments to realize that she was slipping into sleep.

_Thank you, Uncle_. Any response would have been pointless as she was soon lost within the grips of unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>The jet ride was uncomfortably quiet, the unnerving quiet broken only by the soft purr of the plane's stealth-made, military-grade engines. Robin glared out toward the orange horizon that shot past with every ticking second, mind filled to the bursting with far too many answerless questions. He refused to look at his father, anger directed not purposely toward him, but to the universe—just... misdirected along the way. Bruce, in turn, gave his son the space needed to adjust to the new developments. Explanations had been hard and long, Clark cutting of communication as soon as the situation became to familial for his liking, and Alfred had retreated upstairs to clean the coffee spill and prepare another batch of the caffeinated drink along with a light breakfast. It had become very clear early on that there would be no more sleep had that night by any member of the Wayne household.<p>

Dick, for his part, was lost amid his racing thoughts, revisiting the same topic yet _again_—the same fears and worries plaguing him just as they had been for the past few weeks with the added intensity of the recent developments. It had evolved, though—just as anything would when harbored on for long enough. He had known—oh, how he had _known_—that he would never grow to be the Vengeance and the Night, but, even so, he understood that nothing was set in stone. As he continued to dwell on... _everything_, however, the obvious and rather frightening question kept presenting itself at the forefront of his mind, refusing to be pushed back to the recesses of his thoughts: _Without Batman, what was he, really?_ Just some limber kid in tights, trying to play God? He had no superpowers, and everything that he had built for himself stemmed from Bruce—no, _no_, not everything. Yet Bruce provided the anchor that allowed not only others to take him seriously as both a person and a hero, but himself, as well. It was strange to think of himself as only thirteen—such an aged, ancient thirteen-years—and yet the looming confines of his legal and social status as a minor held him back. A scared, wounded child who was _so strong_ and had seen _so much_, even as he was still _so young_.

He hoped that he would not have to make any sort of concrete plans for his future any time soon, but he knew that nothing was a guarantee—not health, not survival, not happiness, not peace—in the way of life he had chosen... or any _civilian_ life, either.

And then, of course, some paranoid, violent stranger had to crash—quite literally—into his world, embodying everything that he had sworn against becoming, and screw up the balance.

So entrapped was he in his dark internal musings that Robin failed to register when the Jet slowly descended toward the massive terribly-hidden hanger cut in the side of Mount Justice, only coming to his senses when unexpected—or completely inevitable, depending on his level of concentration regarding the world around him—turbulence rocked the cockpit. Soon, the sleet black vehicle was rolling slowly along the landing strip and entering the familiar caverns of the place that had become his favorite hang-out. A place to relax, to be with his friends, to grasp at some small illusion of _normalcy_. As they came to a complete stop, the Jet let out a scratchy, mechanic hiss, and the reinforced viewing shield slipped back, allowing the two passengers a chance to exit. Robin did not hop out of his seat immediately, as he normally would, instead opting to let his father's feet hit the ground before he made any sort of move. He was dreading what was sure to come next, and he could only go so far as to delay the inevitable.

Had their footfalls made any sound—the Dynamic Duo thrived in darkness and silence, so there was never a question of heavy combat boots causing echoes even through the most acoustic of settings—they would have sounded empty, lonely, unnerving as they reverberated across the arching caverns and hallways. A promise of foreboding events to come all too soon. There was no laughter chiming from the kitchen, wafting in on the smoke of burned goodies; there was no ever-present, dull television static, casting a near-constant background white noise as life's single-note soundtrack fizzing along from the sitting room; there were no shouts and yells—not out of anger, but friendly, near-sibling rivalry—ringing through the _entire cave_ as the metal air vents carried the sound like the life of a heartbeat to anyone who would listen. It was too dead. Too quiet.

This only proved so sink Robin further into angst, his mood only exacerbating as he and his father passed the medical wing on their way to the monitor room. _He_ was still here, whether it seemed so or not.

As soon as the AI confirmed Batman's identity, a familiar holographic keyboard revealed itself on the main monitor console, and Bruce paused to glance at his son briefly before sending out a message to all of the quarantined mini-Leaguers and their mentors. This was something that he wanted to keep as close to home as possible for the time being, and he requested that only the five remaining members of his covert ops team return to base for the time being. It went unspoken that he would inform the elders of any urgent details as soon as possible, but the situation had come to directly involve only the young heroes at this point—with the notable exception of the Flash. For a moment, Batman debated upon whether or not to ask Barry to retrieve the impersonation—but could it _really_ be called an impersonation any more, he wondered?—Batsuit from the Watchtower, but decided against it... for now. Communications finished and knowing he only had a few minutes to spare before either of the endearingly obnoxious speedsters arrived, Bruce turned to his son, ready to deliver an impressive, reassuring, fatherly-love-filled speech that would quell the small boy's worries and _make everything okay_.

But when he met Dick's face and gazed into his mask-covered, hidden eyes, he could almost feel the confused, border-line accusing stare boring its way through his own cowl, and he was left speechless. What did one say at a time like this? There was no manual, no guide. And he, honestly, had no idea what his little bird was thinking. It worried him how much Dick kept things inside, hidden; but Black Canary had said he had responded positively to the impromptu therapy sessions, so that was a start, a step. They blinked solemnly at one another in silence.

"Bruce, can I see him?" It was the first thing Dick had spoken in hours, and the words came out quiet. It was a simple request, but there were so many outcomes should he answer in the affirmative.

"It would be best if—" he was not given the opportunity to finish his train of thought, but the answer was clear.

_Recognized: Kid Flash, B-03_

_ Recognized: Superboy, B-04_

_ Recognized: Flash, 04_

Even before the Zeta Beam AI had finished reciting their names, the Technicolor-clad pair was standing with their Gotham counterparts, followed closely by the Kryptonian boy that had become their temporary charge. Neither duo said anything for a moment, Flash taking in the tense atmosphere hovering around Batman and Robin, and shooting the Dark Knight a concerned look that partially demanded answers. None came.

"So... what's going on?" Wally spoke up after a moment, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot as he picked up on his friend's solemn, worrying demeanor. Something big had happened. Something that was more than likely _not_ good—because that just seemed to be the way things worked out around them.

His words seemed to snap the Dark Knight to attention, and he responded with a brisk, "We have successfully identified..." Batman paused uncharacteristically, which worried the two Central City natives. Bruce, meanwhile, was trying to answer his own unspoken question. Yes, he had given a name to the face, but who did that make the man, _really_? Was he still a stranger? A threat? "...the man." Before either Wally or Barry could jump in with any more questions, he continued on, "We will await the arrival of the rest of your Team before I begin the debriefing."

The young redhead scowled as his uncle placed a gloved hand on his shoulder, preventing any outbursts. Connor, for his part, kept silent, nodding rigidly in Batman's direction in agreement. He understood the practical advantages of only having to offer explanations once. Seeing that no further information would be passed on to the teenagers, Barry took the initiative, his face suddenly brightening just a little _too_ much. "Hey, Kid—why don't you head into the kitchen and grab a snack, 'kay?" Wally swung around to shoot his uncle an incredulous look. They had _just_ finished breakfast! He wasn't hung—well, he wasn't _too_ hungry. The blonde man gave him a gentle shove toward the other room's general direction. "Take Rob and Supey with you, while you're at it. Connor barely _touched_ his food this morning, and I'm sure Robin hasn't eaten yet." In reality, the young Kryptonian had devoured precisely three pancakes, all stacked and cut into twelve exact, uniform squares. It had been slightly unnerving, but the Wests had grown accustomed enough to strange dietary habits over the years not to question it.

At his mention, Superboy glanced up to protest, "I—" but was silenced by a look from Wally, who caught on to his uncle's intentions. Dick, however, stayed silent, watching the exchange with piqued interest through his brooding fog.

"Yeah, okay, Uncle B," with that, the speedster raced over to grab his best friend's arm and drag him into the culinary haven adjacent, Connor trailing slowly behind. Both adults knew that anything said would be well-heard by the clone, and Barry hoped that would not impede the Dark Knight's responses to his questions.

Even before the teenagers would far away enough for such a superpower to be needed, though, they heard the Scarlet Speedster's exasperated sigh. "Alright, Bats— what happened?"

As soon as they reached the kitchen, Wally made a bee-line for the fridge that Black Canary took care to keep well-stocked. As he rummaged through its contents at top speed, Dick and Connor stood back, one lost in a conversation taking place a wall away and the other too wrapped up in his mind to really be present in the moment. "Hey, Rob," the ginger called, sticking his head around the opened appliance door as soon as he registered the unnerving quiet surrounding his friends. For Superboy, it was expected, but Robin was usually talkative and joking in even the worst of situations. It was worrying. "Are you okay, man?"

The black-haired boy shot him a small smile in return, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking, I guess." Wally wasn't buying it, and he closed the refrigerator door with a _hiss_, opting instead to grab an apple from the fruit basket on the counter and moving to lean on the counter opposite where his best friend stood.

"You guess? So you're not _totally_ sure?" He cracked a grin in an effort to cheer up the younger boy, but only received a tight-lipped half-upturn in response. "What're you thinking about, then?"

"Oh, you know... stuff." His gaze unconsciously drifted toward the main hall, back down which the medical wing sat, and Wally caught the gesture even through his domino mask. Catching himself—this was something between him, Batman, and... _that guy_ in the other room, not KF—Robin suddenly hopped up, and, as though someone had flipped a switch, shot a mischievous grin toward his best friend. "I wonder what your uncle and Bats are talking about." There was a devious glint to his expression that still had the speedster reeling to catch up with his mood swing, but, when he did, Kid Flash sent a smirk right back. He knew that Robin was simply putting on a face, but chose to go along with it. He had never been one to press, and knew that Dick would open up eventually, on his own time, if he ever did.

"Probably nothing we're allowed to hear."

"It's such a shame, really..." Both boys turned toward Connor, who was still standing off to the side, ears pricked as he half listened to the conversation taking place beside him.

"Picking up anything interesting with those powers of yours?" Wally raised his eyebrows expectantly, but he should have known to be a bit more straightforward to receive the answers he wanted from the socially-inept Kryptonian clone.

"That would depend on who you asked, I guess. It's a matter of opinion as to how interesting something is." Robin rolled his eyes at the statement.

"Well, whatever you can hear must be interesting to _you_; you're certainly concentrating hard enough." Wally teased lightly, crossing his arms. "What are they saying?"

"The Flash had us leave the room for a reason. He and Batman probably don't want us to know what they're talking about."

"So? You were the one listening in the first place. We simply want to know what _you_ know." Superboy had the decency to look sheepish—or as sheepish as he could, because that was not an adjective often used to describe the stoic boy—at that statement. "They're going to tell us when everyone else gets here, anyway, so it's really not that big of a deal."

Connor conceded, recognizing that his friend's logic was sound—or, at least, semi-sound enough to sway him. He would be the first to admit—well, second if Red Arrow had been present—that being left out of the loop was becoming increasingly annoying. Yes, the League had given them some freedoms, but they were still sometimes treated as less-than-heroes, even though they had earned rights to actual titles long ago. That was, of course, why he had been listening in the first place. "They're talking about the suit, now." He relented gruffly.

"That outfit our crazy dude was wearing?" Wally received another stiff nod in return. The Bat knew they were listening in, and was more than likely trying to screen the conversation

"So, anything new?" Robin asked, looking expectantly at Connor. Batman had told him everything he had known—or had been willing to reveal—much, much earlier that morning, but, seeing as the Flash was in charge of analyzing the physical evidence found, there was a large possibility that he could learn more about... his future self. He stopped the train of thought, though, as soon as it started rounding that familiar loop asking _why_ he was wearing the suit in the first place.

Connor paused, cocking his head to the side ever so slightly as he listened carefully. He almost seemed, to Wally, like a puppy, at times—though he would never, _never_ admit it aloud. He _liked _living. "All of the equipment is professional grade, League-quality... stuff. There's a wrist computer imbedded in the left glove—the one that wasn't destroyed. Flash hasn't been able to get into the programming much, because it's heavily encrypted." Two out of three boys' facial expressions furrowed, both thinking the same thing as their gazes flicked toward the ninja standing beside them. "Aside from the obvious design changes, the outfit itself much lighter than Batman's; the armor lining is some new kind of bullet-proof material that he's never seen before, and his cape is less than half the weight of the original." Another pause, "And there's some kind of glider folded into the materia—" before he could continue on, however, the Zeta Tube AI's mechanical voice resounded through the cave halls.

_Recognized: Miss Martian, B-05_

_ Recognized: Martian Manhunter, 07_

Immediately, Superboy set out in search of his girlfriend; he was not used to spending so much time away from her, and was anxious to see her again. They _did_ live together, after all. Meanwhile, Robin and Kid Flash shared a look; her uncle had beamed down with her, which meant that either something was wrong, or J'onn knew about another new development. The two boys set off after their friend, returning to the main room where the adults had migrated just in time to see Martian Manhunter give his niece a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before striding toward the two other mentors.

Upon seeing their arrival, M'gann immediately perked up, having looked a frighteningly out-of-character blend of distraught and forlorn. "Hey, guys!" She floated over toward her friends as they approached, engulfing Superboy in a hug the moment she was close enough to do so. After releasing him, she moved on to the other two, for good measure—though she remained a beat longer with her arms around Robin than the others, much to Connor's unexplainable annoyance. The Boy Wonder, however, simply embraced her, understanding. M'gann _knew_, and he wanted to let her know that he did, as well. Whether she picked up on his message or not, though, he wasn't sure, so he pushed a little mental message of reassurance her way in an effort to comfort her. She squeezed a little harder before releasing him.

As they regrouped, Batman was informing J'onn that _yes_, he was aware of the man's identity. When the Martian offered to share the memories M'gann had gathered with the Dark Knight, however, he paused, debating, before declining. It would be better if he remained detached for the time being, and there was no telling what kind of emotions the telepathic message would stir up. He needed to keep as much a level head as possible.

_Recognized: Aqualad, B-02_

The Atlantean's arrival was marked with a silent, respectful nod of recognition toward the mentors gathered, before he moved to join the rest of his team. Aquaman had not been explicitly requested, and, as such, had remained under the sea, where he was needed to tend to royal matters—both personal and political. Now, all that was left to do was await Artemis, and then the debriefing could begin. Fifteen minutes of useless, loaded small talk regarding everyone's respective sleepovers later, the mechanical voice spoke up once more.

_Recognized: Artemis, B-07_

_ Recognized: Red Arrow, B-06_

Well, that was unexpected. At the sound of the second name being announced, all conversation stopped, and eight pairs of eyes turned toward the cave's electronic entrance as both archers stepped through. "What?" Artemis asked, suddenly unnerved as her gazed flicked across all of those watching her. Just as she was about to start panicking—_did they know something?_—though, she realized that she wasn't the one everyone had focused on.

"Hey, Roy!" She had never been more thankful for Kid Mouth's ever-present enthusiasm—not that she would ever admit it. "What're you doing here?" In an instant, the speedster was by his fellow ginger's side, ignoring her as he went, followed closely by the other Team members present. She nodded quietly in greeting as they approached, and she received smiles in return from everyone but Superboy and, of course, Wally. "And how'd you end up with Arty, here?" Wally eyed her suspiciously, as though she had somehow brainwashed his friend into associating with her. Suddenly, the panic returned. How was he—she—going to explain that Roy had intercepted a transmission briefing Green Arrow in the events of the night before, and then tracked her down to _where she lived in Gotham_ in order to grill her on the situation _that he had not been informed of_.

He shot a tense glance her way that did _not_ go unnoticed by the ever-perceptive Detectives present in the room, and calmly replied, "We ran into each other as I was gathering some things from GA's house, and decided to join when she got the call from Batman." _And forced her to notify me the minute she heard any new developments so that I could investigate things for myself_.

"Awesome!" Wally cheered, earning a matching grin from the otherwise-quiet Boy Wonder. Neither he nor the Dark Knight was fooled, but the former was not complaining. Roy had always been something of an older brother to him, and, no matter how things turned out, the redhead was someone he wanted on his side.

Bruce, however, was less than amused. "This is a covert assignment debrief, and you have made it _very_ clear that you do not want any part in the Team." _Get out_ was implied, but not heeded.

Roy, unfazed, stood his ground and didn't—noticeably—flinch as Gotham's Protector glared him down. "I think I'll make an exception in this case, alright?" He crossed his arms and rooted his stance as the room lapsed into a tense silence. Later, Wally would swear that he heard thunder rolling in the air as the two most stubborn people—not counting Superman, of course—ever associated with the League stared each other down, waiting for the other to crack.

Knowing that neither would ever back down—well, not any time soon, at least—Robin stepped in, calmly asserting, "Well _I'm_ glad you're here. We don't see enough of you anymore." That settled it for Bruce, who, after sharing a loaded look with his son, reluctantly backed down and took a step back, returning toward the gathered mentors as his cape billowed behind him.

"Yes, it is good to see you again, my friend," Kaldur reached out a hand, which Roy accepted and shook firmly. Red Arrow had gained a multitude of respect for the Atlantean after the peace-talks incident involving Lex Luthor, and, though they had not interacted extensively following, had formed something of a friendship with the younger teenager. M'gann and Connor, for their parts, stood back with Artemis; neither had interacted much with the elder archer, and had nothing to add on his behalf. Once greetings had been exchanged, Robin took a few steps toward where Batman was furiously typing a few things into the main monitor's holographic keyboard and Martian Manhunter and the Flash looked on quietly, both unusually tense. Recognizing the cue, Aqualad took charge, making his way forward. "Now that we are all present, shall we begin?" The Dark Knight nodded briskly, sliding the window—which the Team now recognized as their patient's vital statistics—off to the side.

He turned to address all those present and pulled a clip of the security footage taken in the medical room the night before, playing it back as means of an introduction for both Red Arrow and his fellow Leaguers. "Following yesterday's... encounter, I belatedly retrieved several blood samples as means of pulling an identification once it became clear that he was neither stable nor willing enough to provide an _accurate_ name on his own." A few more taps and the images of several charts and a few charts that several were able to easily identify as mass spectrometer break-down read-outs appeared, pushing the video clip to the bottom of the massive screen. "Analyzing the content's composition, however, revealed two major anomalies," a particularly spiked section of the graph was highlighted, "one being a particularly high white blood cell count—though not enough to indicate any form of life-threatening disease." Another bit on the picture was brought to attention, "The reason for the increase is an abnormal set of cells present in the bloodstream at miniscule amounts."

Ever the science geek, Wally squinted at the screen, perking up in confusion and momentarily forgetting himself as he interrupted _the leader of the League_. "But what is it? That's not any chemical _I've_ seen before, and I thought I pretty much had them all covere—" Barry effectively silenced his nephew with a firm hand on his shoulder, and Kid Flash immediately felt his face turn hot in embarrassment. Under any other circumstances, Artemis and Robin would have been laughing, but, as it were, the Gotham-bred pair was too engrossed in the findings, despite one's knowledge already of what was to come.

The Dark Knight, for his part, paused momentarily as things settled back down before continuing. "The second inconsistency was the blood _itself_, and the DNA held therein." Then the _last_ thing most of the room's occupants expected appeared on-screen: a picture and profile—with the appropriate parts censored out in black, of course—of someone disturbingly familiar. "It was a perfect match to Robin." Needless to say, _that_ went over well.

Immediately, multiple people began talking at once, all crowding around both the Boy Wonder and his mentor. "But... But that's not possible!" Wally sputtered, immediately gripping his best friend's arm before he was aware of the action.

"But he's right—"

"—No way that—"

"—ve your identities been compromis—"

_Enough_. Martian Manhunter's sharp command permeated everyone's thoughts, effectively silencing the rising panic. Neither the Dynamic Duo nor the Martians were dramatically shocked by the news, but Dick was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the near-suffocating group of his closest friends and near-family that had subconsciously closed around him in a protective stance. Some detached part of Batman was amused at the sight, but did not betray it as he returned to the task at hand.

"From what I have been able to gather, the man is a matured Robin from somewhere between eight and eleven years ahead in our own timeline." A few more murmurs rose, but quickly died down. "I have not yet been able to determine how, exactly, it was possible for him to do so, but, judging by the amount of trauma he sustained when entering this reality, it can be inferred that he did not do so willingly."

It was Aqualad who interrupted this time, "But why are you revealing this information to us? Could it not jeopardize this potential future?"

Batman nodded, "Three years ago, the Justice League had a run-in with an alternate dimension group of criminals who called themselves the Crime Syndicate," a blurred snippet of security camera footage maximized itself showing a destructive battle taking place in what Robin and M'gann recognized to be an under-construction Watchtower. "After being tricked into crossing over, much of the League was captured, and we learned of a plan by... one of our counterparts to destroy something called the Multiverse." Out of the corner of his eye, Wally thought he saw his uncle shudder. He would ask about what had happened later—for all of the bragging Barry loved to do regarding his hero-ing adventures, this was one story Wally had never been told.

"Is that, like, one huge, expansive universe, or something?" Artemis asked, a hand on her hip giving the outward appearance of confidence while her incessant chewing on her bottom lip betrayed the nervousness she felt inside. Suddenly, this whole situation was something much, much bigger than all of them. They weren't dealing with some punk who thought he could be Batman anymore—no, things had just reached a whole new level of importance. She wondered why Batman was even bothering to inform them of the situation; this seemed like it belonged on higher channels. It was the type of case that their Team shouldn't be classified to _even think in the general topic of_.

"The Multiverse is a set of parallel dimensions in varying degrees of similarity to our own." Batman paused, seeming to think back on something, before continuing in a different, darker tone of voice. "Each decision that is made has two possible outcomes, and those outcomes prompt other events and subsequent choices that must be made as a result. Every time an answer or solution is presented to a question, the walls of the dimensions are split—whereas as on one world a certain response is given, its counterpart carries on as if the opposite occurs."

"But with seven billion people making an innumerable number of choices every day..." Wally trailed off, swallowing as things started to piece together.

"That means an infinite number of Earths are floating around across dimensional walls right now, multiplying with every second that passes," Red Arrow stated flatly, speaking his first words since the beginning of the debriefing.

Bruce nodded solemnly. "When this older version of Robin returned to this point in time, he created a New Earth, altering whatever events would have taken place on these particular days in the personal history of his timeline."

"But how do we know he isn't from some other dimension altogether, as opposed to the future of this one?" Artemis questioned, shooting a glance as she did so toward the unusually-quiet young Martian currently sidled up next to her stoic boyfriend. She looked... severely upset; and, now that she noticed it, Robin did, as well. The latter was understandable, however—but M'gann? The blonde archer remembered the failed mind-probe attempt from the day before—had she known _all_ of this? Artemis, for her part, was the newest to all of this metahuman craziness, but was doing her best to take the whole thing in stride. She was convinced that the utter absurdity of what she was hearing would sink in later on in the day, but for now she just decided to—as some of her classmates might say—_roll with it_. "I mean, he _did _attack you," now that she thought about it, though, they had not witnessed the actual fight—just its aftermath. And, even then, he had never made any direct attempt at harming them.

"We don't know that for certain, but it is the best guess we have so far. Based on what Miss Martian," he nodded toward the green-skinned ginger, drawing attention to her. At that, however, she seemed to curl in on herself, before tentatively straightening, "witnessed yesterday when entering his subconscious, his history directly parallels our own up until this point." Miss Martian nodded, confirming the Dark Knight's statement to her friends and their mentors. "And that was, what I can infer, a futile attempt on his part to avoid his DNA's recognition by the Systems. Knowing it would compromise his identity and more than likely uncertain of the consequences that could have, he acted rashly as a result of poor thinking brought on by his concussion. That also explains how adamant he was that Miss Martian tell no one who he was."

"All this is well and great," Wally started, before catching his disrespectful tone and clearing his throat, "but what about any _other _possibilities?" Kid Flash shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, "Couldn't he, you know, be another clone from Cadmus, or something?" He shot an apologetic glance toward where Superboy had tensed, fists clenching tightly at the mention of his _creators_. M'gann tried her best to subtly soothe him.

Batman re-selected the first blood map, once again isolating the unknown anomaly tainting the read-out. "I considered that first, as well, but the _CTE _protein's presence in his system is something that only occurs when crossing dimensions. It's the body's defense mechanism against the strain of splitting apart unnaturally due to the stress—the essence of what lies between dimensions seeping through the core in an effort to stabilize the life passing through; or so we have theorized. Again, there's no real way to know for certain. All of the Leaguers who travelled across were subject to strict testing regimens following the event in order to ensure that there were no lasting, harmful effects, and, while each was deemed in normal health, all had contracted his particular, harmless abnormality."

It seemed that, for the time being, there were no more questions, and the silence that followed as the information sunk in to each mind present seemed to stretch on far too long. Eventually, unable to handle the quiet any longer, Flash broke the meditative state. "So... what's the plan, now, Bats? Returning him to his home dimension means sieving through billions of possibilities, and even then there's still a chance that we end up with the wrong world. And the kind of equipment that's needed to make any of this work... it could take weeks—possibly months to put together." He reached up as though he were about to run a hand through his hair, before remembering that his cowl was up and dropping his hand. Barry, unfortunately, settled for pacing, instead—an action that was never _calm_ when being carried out, much less so when a _speedster_ was involved.

Before any answer could be given, though, a red alert message appeared on the screen, an alarm sounding throughout the room. That first window showing the man—now, _Robin's_ vitals maximized itself, all lines and numbers immediately dropping to a flat _zero_. The Team scrambled into action, knowing that could only mean two things: either their friend was _dead_—no one dared dwell on that thought, refusing to believe it even in the worst of circumstances—or, "He's awake."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'm so sorry for the long wait! But I really hope it was worth it. :3 I had a lot of fun writing this chapter-once I got into it, I was on a roll! I just had a bit of a problem deciding how I wanted this scene to play out. (And then, as I was writing, BAM! All of a sudden Roy decided to show up and I was all "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" and had to rework everything). I'm also fairly sure there's some huge plot hole in here, but I tried to come up with explanations for everything as best I could. (It also didn't help that I was listening to techno music while writing, as opposed my usual epic-movie-soundtrack mix. XD)<strong>

**Also, apologies to any one who hasn't seen the Justice League movie "Crisis on Two Earths". I hope I explained things as easily as possible. (In my head-canon, the "Crisis" event happened in the YJ universe because they were done my the same animation team. The styles are so similar... my subconscious never stood a chance...)**

**Anyway, I LOVE YOU ALL! Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed/faved/alerted so far, and please please please keep them coming! You guys keep me inspired to write. -heart-**

**OH! And: Tell-Me-Tales, there's your explanation! Hope it was satisfactory. (:**


	8. Ghost Towns

**Chapter Eight**

The fog was so thick, so dense, so heavy. And, yet, it was strangely comforting; like a hefty wool blanket wrapped around a shivering body in the winter. It blocked out everything, keeping him safe, protected; free of pain, absent or worry. At the same time, though, it was a nuisance, hindering him from the basic necessities of life like _seeing_ and _feeling_. It had been drilled into his brain from such an early age that a keen awareness of one's surroundings was the key to survival—to success—and it bothered him to no end that such luxuries were not possible through the weight. Unnerved him. Everything was fuzzy—for a moment, he couldn't remember where he was, when he was, who he was. But he willed himself back into focus as he clawed through the mist. After what could have been miles or minutes—he couldn't tell—he was strangely exhausted, but by then it was too late. The fog was beginning to clear, giving way to darkness, and, slowly, memories began to surface. He realized then, of course, what was so unnaturally _wrong_ about the fog—it was _too_ thick, _too_ dense, _too_ heavy. Sure signs—as he had been taught both through lessons and experience over the years—of a sedative. _Well that's just wonderful_, he thought, the words echoing through the darkness of his mind. Bruce had drugged him.

Suddenly, though, something pushed him from behind—he felt the sensation, but not the action—and stumbled, falling into nothing. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over, and somehow—_somehow_—he was on his feet again. Running, running, running; because all at once he knew _someone_ was chasing him. His entire body felt like it was on fire, but the only thought that crossed his thoughts was a powerful, desperate need to _get away_. It was irrationally terrifying to be running from a nightmare that he couldn't see but was _oh so aware of_, and some logical part of his brain screamed out that it wasn't real, that there was nothing there, that he _needed to wake up_. Still, he ran, and there was a laugh in the distance. Chasing him, closing in, right up behind him.

_There's no one left to save them, little birdie. Little bat. Little boy flopping in his father's shoes, too big for your feet to fill. Without you, they are alone. They will burn, they will die, they will know that you've abandoned them. You left them, and now they'll pay with their pain. _

And then, he was falling again. He tried to scream, tried to cry out, but couldn't—_wouldn't_—because that was a sign of weakness. And he wasn't weak; no, not anymore. The suffocating blackness that he had once learned to embrace now clawed in toward him, wailing and screeching as the frozen darkness crept up, closer and closer. But he would not succumb; he was _too strong_ for that. Suddenly, he was fleeing again. Retreating from something he didn't know, something he couldn't understand, something that _wouldn't give up_. The midnight world started to grey, and he pushed on, hoping for some relief; for some peace.

_Because a world without Batman isn't much of a world at all, is it?_

There was the laugh again—_that petrifying, sickening laugh_—that sounded _so familiar_ yet so, so strange. It bounced around him, urging him forward and following in front of him, beside him, behind him, _in him_. It was the cackle of a villain; a madman with too much to gain and not enough to lose; a murderer with humor enough to laugh at others as they bled out on the floor or blew to pieces or drowned in a river of their own murky red. It morphed as it echoed, changing into something more, something worse, and, suddenly, he was listening to himself.

He had to get away.

With what seemed like the last bit of strength in his body, he dove forward into the grey that became bright that became white that became _reality_.

He gasped, chest heaving, and struggled to sit up. It took him a moment to realize where he was, but, when he did, he could have laughed. He didn't, though—somehow, he could still hear the dark chuckles even though he knew they weren't there. His body fell back onto the scratching, stark-white hospital-grade pillows and silently cursed himself. _Damn, I really need to stop passing out_. It was, of course, not entirely his fault, but he couldn't bring himself to blame Bruce. Had he been in the same position, he probably would have acted similarly. And, of course, he had been _so angry_ with the man for _so long, _but that in itself had been tiring. So many months ago he had given up and forgiven him for something that neither of them could remember—_lies_—but by then it had been too late. Now, he had no more energy for anger.

He needed to get his head in gear and stay on track.

Okay, so his initial—albeit a bit stupid—plan had backfired. And so had his—probably even worse than the first one—second. What he needed now was a good, solid course of action. Priority one was making sure no one found out who he was; that could lead to a whole new set of disasters that he really, _really_ didn't want to deal with. That, of course, completely flew out the window when Miss Martian probed his mind, but he only hoped that his mental barriers had been enough to filter out just _how much_ she saw while he was in that unpleasant less-than-totally-lucid.

As if to remind him exactly what he was dealing with, the room tilted ever so slightly, and he fought back a sudden wave of nausea at the vertigo. Concussions were very much less than fun, not to mention hindering and just plain inconvenient.

Priority two, without a doubt, was then figuring out how to get back to his own time. Yet again, his brain oh-so-pleasantly surfaced his last memory of Robin, and the nausea decided to make a reappearance. He wanted—_needed_—to know that he was alright. Absently, he wondered if Bruce had ever felt the same sense of collapsing dread and mind-numbing worry when they had worked together. He liked to think that he had. In order to return, though, he would need equipment; fancy, high-end, advanced equipment that he was pretty sure only one place had the resources and knowledge to create. Well, two places, but the second was currently unreachable, ridiculously unpredictable—not to mention painful—and had gotten him in this mess in the first place. A swell of rage welled inside of him but he calmed it, knowing full-well that it would likely be some time before he and Chronos met again. There was little use dwelling on something unchangeable, and he attempted to reorder his thoughts to the task at hand—a feat more complicated than it should have been thanks to the throbbing headache and overall soreness radiating from every cell of his body.

With a practiced eye and too much experience in the matter, he assessed himself, vaguely remembering something being mentioned earlier about internal bleeding. From what he could tell, he had a few cracked ribs, but that seemed to be the worst of his injuries. His right arm had been bandaged, and, based on both the insufferable itching and depressing red stains, he guessed that there was something pretty nasty hidden underneath. For sanitary purposes, he decided to leave on the wrappings and asses the real damage later, and moved on to his next task: getting out. Wires were everywhere, hooking him up to various monitors and machines, and he knew that removing any one of them would set off an alert. For the moment, he was alone, but that did not necessarily mean that he was the only one in the Cave. And, even if he was the only _living_ person at the Mountain, Red Tornado was likely still hovering around in a sleep cycle, just waiting to pounce. He had no idea what time it was, but he guessed it must have been early in the morning. When he and Bruce had entered the cave hours before, it had been well past midnight, but there was no telling how long he had been out.

Trying his best to remember the facility's layout—it had been a while since he had last been here, but his training had been strict and escape routes had been something of a burning memory after the incident with Red's siblings; _It's been a while since I've thought of that_—and all the various nooks and crannies. But getting out of the mountain was only one aspect of it—and an easy one, at that. If there was any hope of returning home, he would have to find a way into the Watchtower. There, he would have access to both his suit—and, by extension, computer—and any technology the League kept on hand. There was one item in particular that he was hoping to find, and he could only pray that it had ended up in storage there rather than the Batcave. In the case that he _could_ locate it, there was no telling how damaged it would be, or whether or not he could modify it enough to send him back. Even then, he had no idea if "back" qualified as the same thing anymore. There was no telling what he had changed in the short while he had been in this timeline, or how long it could take him to make the adjustments he needed to suit his needs.

Dwelling on the positives. Right.

One thing was certain in escaping the cave: air ducts were the key. The Cave's shafts were abnormally large for two reasons: one, the heat generated at the core of the mountain needed extra siphoning to keep the buildings cool; and two, as a backup route in case something went wrong. The second proposal had, of course, been Batman's idea, and no one dared argue or accuse him of being paranoid—even though everyone knew he was. To the left of the bed, right where he remembered it, was an oversized vent that would have simply blended into his side vision had he not known to look for it; perfect. It was a little higher than he would have liked to stretch due to his injuries, but he had done worse things under worse circumstances and was willing to take what the universe threw at him. The key was getting it open in a short enough amount of time to give him some kind of head start before whoever was monitoring him decided to show up.

He could manage, though; he had worked with less before.

Positive. Stay positive.

With that final thought, he yanked out the IV needle and unclipped himself from everything in one fell swoop, tumbling to his feet out of bed all in the same movement. He fought to right himself for half a second and the monitors began blaring that his heart had flat lined, clawing onward past the wave of dizziness that threatened to engulf him once again. After too long, he was at the vent, prying it off the wall and wishing that he had some—_any__—_of his equipment with him. With one last, exhausting heave, the safety lock gave way and the metal grate clattered to the floor. He reached up, ignoring the searing pain as his movements pulled on his wounds and tugged at the muscles around his ribs, and grasped the ledge's edge, fully prepared to lift himself up and scurry away.

Without any warning, a small, feminine voice crashed through his thoughts, _Wait! Don't panic! Everything will be okay. _Everything, however, was severely _not_ okay as, in shock, his grip slackened and he crashed to the floor, unable to help the cry that escaped his lips. Whether it was from surprise or pain, though, he wasn't sure.

* * *

><p>Seconds after the medical alert sounded, Wally was ready to bolt. Now that he knew just <em>who<em>, exactly, was lying injured in the next room, he couldn't help but he overwhelmed with worry. There was no doubt that Robin was his best friend—his _brother_—and, suddenly, that sentiment extended to two people. He felt a twinge of guilt in considering the man his enemy at first, but his feelings had been completely justified. That being said, all thoughts of animosity flew out the window at that shocking moment when Dick's picture flashed on the screen. There was no reason for them to linger; Robin would never, _never_ grow to be anything less than a hero. There was not a single ounce of doubt about that, and the dark costume he had been wearing when found only furthered that theory—_fact_.

He and M'gann were the first to react, the young Martian immediately forming as much of a telepathic link as she could in an effort to calm him. If he had ripped out the monitors, it was probable that he was either panicking or—more likely based on what they knew of Robin—making a break for it. He was aware that she knew of his identity, but there was a near guarantee that his reaction would be negative when he discovered that the others did, as well. She was almost positive he was unaware that his fears and worries were unwarranted, and, coupled with the fact that he was injured to the point of potentially impaired judgment, that could prove dangerous. The minute Miss Martian entered his thoughts, though, she instantly regretted it as she felt a wave of confusion and pain wash over her. M'gann cried out in what she was sure was perfect synchronization with the fallen man as he hit the ground, and took off moments later, concerned to the point of near hysteria. Slower than their teammates would have liked—though, really, it had been less than three ticks on a clock—the others followed, Flash hot on his nephews heels as the two speedsters raced toward the medical wing.

Kid Flash punched in the security code at lightning speed, rushing through the crack before the door to his friend's room had even fully opened, and arrived just as the man's body hit the floor. Instantly, Wally was at his side, while the newly-identified traveler blinked at the ceiling, trying to regain some order to his vision. "Hey, man, are you okay?" the young redhead asked, hovering over him, worry evident even through his cowl. The man gave a weak grunt and attempted to shift his position, visibly cringing as he did so while trying to focus on the boy above him. Falling was the opposite of helpful when it came to healing injuries, he decided. "No; no, don't try to sit up just yet. That was a pretty nasty hit you took." Instead of taking the advice, however, he stretched once more, refusing to succumb—he had already lost so much time, and couldn't dare to run the risk of passing out _yet again_, a very real possibility that seemed to creep up on him from behind as the room began swimming for what he felt was the umpteenth time that morning.

The man stared up at Kid Flash in confusion and bewilderment, caught completely off-guard by both his sudden appearance and overall cheerful, friendly demeanor. Yes, Wally had always been a caring person, but he had not given the speedster any reason to trust him enough to warrant the tauntingly _nice _behavior—quite the opposite, in fact. The last time he remembered seeing this little version of the redhead was just after Miss Martian's failed telepathic intrusion, and he had been angry and ready to fight him. The sudden change was a step beyond unnerving; it was _worrying_. For a moment, he considered the possibly that M'gann had let his identity slip, but dismissed the thought in an instant. It may have been a shocking discovery for the young girl, but she was nothing if not trustworthy. If she was anything like the Miss Martian he remembered fighting beside during his days growing into himself as a hero, he had little to worry about in that respect. Still, Wally's actions brought up a spike of alarm, and immediately he took the first halfway-reasonable plan that came to mind.

"Who the hell are you?" he snarled, curling back in on himself away from the teenager's touch and wincing at pain shot throughout his body. The look of utter devastation that flashed across his best friend's face was enough to make him want to recant his words, but survival was key. He could give no indication—not even the slightest hint—of who he really was; the ramifications could be devastating. "And where am I?" Wally reached out, unsure of what else to do, but wanting to some kind of calming emotion. "Don't touch me!"

His best friend—his brother—didn't know who he was. Wally felt like he had been kicked in the stomach, and all he could do was stare, blinking through confusion and hurt, as the injured man leapt to his feet in one staggering, semi-fluid movement and cringed slightly at the tugs on his wounds.

Just as he managed to stabilize himself, the rest of the Team came barreling down the hall, Flash—Flash? What was Barry doing here?—leading the charge with a substantial head start. "What's going on?" he asked, gaze flicking worriedly between his stunned nephew and the fuming man, now in a defensive position, standing against the wall. In the blink of an eye, he was at Wally's side, "Kid? Kid, what happened?"

In response, the young redhead only glared at the dark-haired man in a stony silence, not trusting himself to speak. Dick could have wavered under the harsh, accusing gaze, but didn't—that was an indication to foes that something was wrong, and, as much as it killed him to think it, these people were his enemies. But why—_why_—was he looking at him like that? What had happened?

Suddenly, Miss Martian's frantic voice echoed in through his thoughts just as she and the others—plus Martian Manhunter? Something really, _really _wasn't right—came crashing across the medical room's threshold. _Robin? Are you hurt? _He jumped at the sudden intrusion, stumbling ever so slightly as the room decided to start tilting to the side ever so slightly. Instantly, she was at his side, and he took a step back in response, eyes wide, hitting the wall as he did so. He hated playing scared for survival, but, really, that's what this was about—getting out while causing as little damage as possible.

"Shit, will you stop that?" he ground out, shooting his voice an octave higher in attempt to sound terrified and confused. The first part was easy to fake, but he found that the confusion was real. "Get out of my head!"

Batman stepped forward, advancing on the volatile man, eyes narrowing. "What is going on here?" he demanded, gaze shifting between the two teens and adults huddled in the room's far corner.

"I could ask you the same thing, _Batman_," the man snapped back, voice dripping with accusation. "You stalk me, cuff me, throw me in a jet and fly to God-knows-where, knock me unconscious, mentally assault me via some kid, and drug me. I can't remember much, but I _do _know that I haven't done anything wrong." he risked a scoff, glaring, "and I thought you were supposed to be the good guy."

The words probably cut him as much—if not more—than the Dark Knight in front of him, but neither stony-faced man betrayed any kind of hurt.

Artemis rose up at that, shooting the man a glare of her own as she stepped forward. No matter what the damn DNA said, this was _not _the Boy Wonder. "Hey, _you _attacked Miss Martian; you haven't exactly made yourself out _not _to be a threat." her fingers twitched into fists, itching for her bow. The redheaded girl in question shifted her gaze back and forth between Dick and the others in the room, unsure of what to do or what was happening. Something wasn't right.

"That is _enough_," Batman growled, advancing. By then, Barry had coaxed Wally back toward the others, and suddenly the group of stunned heroes was watching a standoff. Conner's muscles tensed, wanting nothing more than to yank M'gann, who was still caught at the man's side, out from the middle of the fray. Despite a core, protective instinct driving him to do so, though, he resisted, knowing that his anger would likely lead to some rash, damaging action on his part that would only worsen the already tumultuous situation. Perhaps his sessions with Black Canary _were _doing some good.

The man, for his part, moved forward as well, squaring off against the larger man with a dark confidence that was more than a little unsettling for the others holding their breath. He was reminded of countless situations that had played themselves out before—in his past—between he and Bruce. Some detached, morbid part of his mind found an unusual comfort in the familiarity of it all, and a twinge of regret flashed with the memories. Never again.

Knowing full well that things were quickly spiraling out of any sort of control, M'gann panicked, frantically sending one last ditch effort out into the telepathic world in an attempt to subdue—or at least distract—the man that was her friend, and yet _still wasn't_. She knew it was reckless, and was fully aware that it could backfire, but she was desperate, hurt, confused, and not above acting on impulse. _Robin, they know; they know!_

The man's eyes widened immediately, and, with a whip that would make any speedster jealous, whirled on the young girl who couldn't hold back a flinch at his furious expression. Now, he didn't have to fake the anger and hurt, "_What_?" he practically roared. "You knew what would happen if you told them! Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Martian Manhunter was suddenly stalking up behind the man. He had known easily that his threatening facade had been just that, but the raw emotions now directed toward M'gann were enough to warrant his interference. Superboy was not far behind inching up, unsure of what to do but wanting—_needing_—to protect the frightened redheaded girl.

J'onn laid a hand on the man's shoulder in a dual attempt at calming and preventing any further advancements on his _family_. "She did not—" Instantly, Dick reacted to the touch, acting more on instinct and wired nerves than any kind of thought. He gripped the Martian's arm with the strength of steel and simultaneously flipped him while sweeping his feet out from under him. The blue-clad man never hit the ground, however, despite not anticipating the attack. He phased from his opponent's grip, levitating moments before his body came in contact with the floor. Instantly, Batman lunged, the Flash not far behind as the two heroes attempted to subdue the struggling man.

Dick had never been particularly fond of tight spaces, and that included forced confinement under crushing arms. Lashing out, he manage to knock the blonde speedster away fairly easily, only combating his former mentor as he attempted to twist up the arm gripping his own forearm. He jerked it hard, immediately dislocating the older man's shoulder, but the Dark Knight wasn't fazed. Using the injury as a momentary distraction, he used his other, free arm to whip the man over his shoulders—which would have worked, had he not been trained by the Batman, himself. Using the leverage, Dick twisted his hands to springboard off Bruce's dark shoulders, landing smoothly on his feet and repeating the same attack that he had attempted on Martian Manhunter. In an instant, Batman was on his back with a grunt as the wind was momentarily, forcibly thrust from his lungs, but he didn't stay down for long, immediately taking advantage of the situation from below and twisting to sweep the man's legs from under him. It worked, and, suddenly, the other heroes swarmed, only then reacting to the fight that had taken place in seconds. Superboy and Roy leaped to pin the man against the floor on either side, while J'onn knelt with a finger to his temple, preparing to render him unconscious.

_Wait!_ the clear, forceful order echoed throughout everyone's thoughts, causing a momentary freeze as ten heads jerked to face the commanding source. M'gann, still off to the side, floated several feet off the ground in a position that copied her uncle's—pressing the sides of her forehead—a look of pure determination etched across her features. _Just listen__!_

Immediately, the man relaxed, letting his head fall back onto the floor for a moment as he closed his eyes, and, briefly, the gathered heroes thought he had passed out once again. He swallowed, before lifting head again to lock eye with the fierce young teenage girl. "Right," he said quietly, clearing his throat and sending everyone except M'gann on an emotional whiplash with how quickly the situation had changed—_yet again_. "Right, sorry." still, the two young men did not loosen their grip. He didn't blame them.

Satisfied, Miss Martian's face softened as she hovered down, reaching to rub her arm with the other in an unconscious gesture of uncomfortableness as she addressed him. "They—well, Batman—figured it out. I wouldn't betray you like that." her voice was young, sweet; guilt clawed at his insides as he immediately regretted turning on her. He had _known_—what had he been thinking? I'm seconds, though, his head snapped toward Bruce, who was just then getting up from the floor while attempting to pop his shoulder back into his socket. Dick winced, regret mounting.

Martian Manhunter, satisfied that the situation had been successfully subdued, placed a placating hand on both boys still atop the traveler. "He will neither attack nor run. Release him." After a beat if hesitation, they reluctantly obliged, and their captive immediately propped himself up and grimaced as he stretched his sore muscles.

"Figures," he grumbled, but there was no malice behind the words as he eyed his father warily. Kaldur had quietly stepped up to help the Dark Knight, Artemis at his side, and they relocated his injury without so much as a grunt on his victim's part. He saw the signs though—a clenched jaw, gripping fist, barely-audible, sharp intake of breath. He had been trained for years to watch out for the man's safety when he refused to do it himself, and recognized the pain.

A movement behind the three heroes caught his eye, and his gaze flicked briefly over the Dark Knight's shoulder—and froze. Staring back at him, petrified, devastated, disbelieving, where his own masked eyes, boring holes into his body as the younger boy struggled to process all that he had just seen. This Robin was small, likely in his early teens, and instantly his mind flashed back to what life had been like at that age. The excitement of his new team, and the powerful bond they had formed as they grew and learned together; the thrill of missions and the adventure, promise, and excitement they offered; the pain and disappointment in the face of too-often made mistakes; and the looming dread of what would become of him when he grew—who he would be—what would happen.

He had just shown himself his greatest fear.

He had given some kind of conformation—no matter how true or false—that he _would _become the very thing that he fought against taking up. That he _would _take after his father, following in his footsteps as the dark, masked vigilante. That he _would submit_ himself to the cold, volatile persona that came with that burden.

Kid Flash was attempting to get his best friend's attention, but Robin only continued stare at the older man, who gazed right back, suddenly vulnerable. He knew; and he knew that the _other man_ realized it, as well. His eyes—uncovered, he now realized—swam with uncertainty, regret, pain, fear, worry, _sadness_.

The others, whose attention had, up until that point, been focused solely on the violent man, slowly followed his path of sight. Flash couldn't help but cringe at the utter defeat—vulnerability—resigned devastation held behind the white domino mask lenses. It was heart breaking; it was _wrong_.

Silently, as everyone held their breath, the older Dick lifted himself up, smoothly coming to stand without help. Even as the world tilted _again_, though, he never once broke the connection. His younger self needed reassurance that he couldn't give—wasn't qualified to give—anymore. There were no words; nothing that could be said to quell the typhoon of dread swirling inside the black-haired boy.

Sensing a stalemate—and the turmoil brewing under the tension hanging over everything like a suffocating fog—Batman silently slipped forward, shooting back a glare that would have terrified anyone—_anyone_—else and sent them cowering. Absently, Dick wondered at the fact that he, sometimes, missed that look; the expression of utter disappointment, like he had completely failed his father. It wasn't the emotion that he yearned for, but the man that radiated it. Taking up the cowl had changed him— morphed him in some ways and not in others, and only half of those being the things that really mattered—and it was a burden that he had never been meant to bear. Suddenly, the full force of what he had done hit him, head on, as he watched Bruce escort the broken boy away from himself.

He had ruined his innocence.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>** I'm sorry it took me so long to get this chapter up! I had a hard time writing it (had to redo it a few times because I kept thinking Dick was too OOC, but I'm not sure that was really ever remedied. XP) and this is the version I was most satisfied with. (Which I ended up writing at 3AM on my iPhone's notepad app...) I hope y'all like it! This is the first (official; because the one in the first chapter doesn't really count) fight scene I've ever written, and I'm actually a little proud of it. Tell me what you think, though, because this story is going to have a lot of action as the plot progresses! Speaking of action, I think at this point things are going to start picking up speed. I've gotten through most of the introspective, emotional issues and uncertainty that came with older!Dick's discovery, and from here on out there's going to be more things happening. That being said, I'm still going to really focus on the two Dicks and Bruce and their views as things progress, but I really want to get this story going. **

**Originally, I was going to have a whole fangirl-y schpeel about my newest TV obsession, "Dexter", but decided against it because that's a long, tedious rant that I don't want to go into to. Long story short: watch it; it's absolutely brilliant, and I'm addicted to the soundtrack. (I was listening to it while writing, which is probably why this chapter is a little dark). **

**Oh! (sorry, one last thing) The anonymous reviewer Damian Wayne (love your name, by the way) brought of a good point about my chapter titles-because I'm terrible at coming up with relevant and creative titles, I usually just use the name of whatever song I'm listening to that (I think) fits the chapter. -shrug-**

****Anyway, as usual, THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the hits/alerts/faves/reviews! You guys are amazing, and you really keep me going! That being said, I always really appreciate your feedback, and would appreciate some constructive criticism (especially on this chapter). Also, I don't have a beta, so... if anyone's willing? :3****

****Sorry for the rambling~ I love you all!****

****[EDIT]: Sorry about the awkward, randomly capitalized words. They were supposed to be transferred to italics when I moved the story over to my laptop, but, unfortunately I didn't get them all. I tried to fix what I could find, but if there are any I missed please feel free to tell me!****


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